Waiting for Redemption
by EnglishIvy
Summary: She is a Nazi. He is trapped behind enemy lines. Is she a traitor too?
1. Prologue

**Hello! This is a story based on BOB and uses ideas from the show, but is otherwise AU. My inspiration was elements of "Replacements," "Why We Fight," and the characters themselves, of course. Historically, the timeline of the war has be slightly modified to fit the plot. But that is why this is fiction, right? :)**

 **I don't own anything pulled from the book or show.**

 **Please enjoy!**

 _You will become one of us, whether you like it or not_.

Waiting. My life has become an exercise of waiting. For what, I don't know. I count the days, wondering how long this game will last. Two thousand, two hundred and ninety days since I last slept in my own bed. Four hundred and twenty three days since I was dropped off at this farm and told that it was my new home. In between consists for two hundred and seven days of punishment, one thousand days of re-education lessons, and five hundred and seventy six nights of crying myself to sleep before they deemed me cured. Before I am a good little Nazi. Then I was placed on this farm and told to live the rest of my life how the Fuhrer wanted.

I can guess what the Fuhrer wants, but I know they won't let me go so easily. So waiting becomes my pastime. Staring out the window, numbly doing my chores, existing but always waiting. To be taken away again. To finally disappear forever. It will be coming any day now. People avoid me, like they know I am a marked woman. When I go into the village they clear my way like I am a leper who ventured too far from the colony. I go so long without speaking to anyone I hold conversations with myself just to make sure my voice works. I'm sure it doesn't help my reputation when I am caught muttering to myself in my garden. It doesn't matter; my scarlet _A_ is more than just a patch on a dress. It is permanently marked on my soul.

My isolation ends on day one hundred and twenty eight on the farm. I am staring at the dying fire in my living room when I hear the gate outside creak. A little old woman totters up the path towards my door. I watch her through the window, not quite sure if the Nazi's final hammer can be swung by such a diminutive creature.

She smiles at me through the glass and holds up a jar. It is full of jam.

"I just made it," she says as I open up the door. She shoves into my hands. "It's a gift."

I serve us both the jam and watch her slather some bread and take a bite. Maybe it isn't poisoned.

"Such a pretty, sweet girl," she coos at me. "The people here are just awful. They are afraid of outsiders."

They have every reason to be afraid. I am an outsider who could bring ruin upon their whole village. She acts like she doesn't care.

"We shall be the best of friends. My name is Greta."

In the silence as we chew I feel myself smile.

"I'm Caroline."

The war comes to my doorstep on day five hundred and sixty four of my stay in the village. Seven days are spent in my cellar, coughing on dirt shaking from the floorboards above me and eating cold pickled carrots.

Time slows in that dark hole in the ground and it feels like ages between the tick marks I scratch on the wall. Sometimes I feel like the prisoners I saw in the movies at the nickelodeon. _Scratch_. Day One. _Scratch_. Day Two.

Should people feel this numb in a bomb shelter? My limbs move robotically, shoving food into my mouth or pulling a comb through my increasingly dirty hair. If a bomb hits my house I will die. If the Nazis stay in my village I will die. If the Americans win they will execute us all and I will die. What does it matter? I am a dead woman. A ghost living in a world of shadows, making the motions of existing but living remains an elusive concept.

So I sit. And I wait.


	2. Chapter 1

My house still stands on day seven, when the explosions finally stop. I crawl out my cellar and peek through the windows, waiting to see which side had won. I suppose I should feel relief as a German truck rumbles past my house, but I know this just means there will be another battle. _When?_ That is the question.

I stare at the soldiers as they drive by, their faces shockingly young or painfully old. The empty look in their eyes and the streaks of dirt on their ill-fitting uniforms is the same, regardless of their age. The newspapers say the Americans crossing into Germany were like calves being led to slaughter. Invading the _Mutterland_ was going to make each and every German take arms and rise up in defense. For being heroic defenders these Germans look awfully tired.

Dust. The shaking and trembling of the last week has covered everything in dust. I use my sleeve to wipe the windowpane clean but the soldiers are gone by the time I finish, leaving the road quiet and empty. New holes and craters mar its surface, I notice. I wonder if they are going to bother to repair it before the next battle.

I make my way to the back of the house, inspecting for damage. A vase has been knocked off the mantle above the hearth, leaving a thousand shards across the dusty floorboards. The vase was here when I moved in, like everything else that furnishes this place. I hadn't been told whose home this had been prior to my arrival, but I assume they wouldn't miss the vase, wherever they were.

I try not to think about the people who were here before. Most days there is smoke on the distant horizon to the east, coming from the camp the Nazis had built. Subversives, it is said, are sent there. Enemies of the State. The Unwanted.

 _You don't want to go there, do you Caroline? You know what happens there. It's where we send people who are not good servants to the Mutterland._

No, they wouldn't miss the vase. I step past the shards and move to take stock of the rear yard.

The air is still cold as I step outside, but the smell of spring is in the air. The brown grass is dotted with the infant shoots of dandelions, portending a warm March. The tension of the long, dark winter spent flinching at every rumble, distant and close, is beginning to wear on me. Even if the explosions did not stop, the warmth of the sun would be a relief.

The walls of my barn are pitted and pockmarked. I run my fingers over the ragged edges of the holes, trying to determine if shrapnel or bullets made them. Shrapnel meant my home was few meters away from destruction. Bullets meant the enemy had been at my door.

I can't tell. I round the corner to look at the rear but the ground gives way beneath me and I stumble into a shallow hole that hadn't been there before. My feet land in a layer of muck but I catch myself before the rest of me follows.

The smell. It is new and familiar at the same time. Sweet, yet earthy. Metallic and rancid. I look down.

The mud is tinged red. A helmet floats upside down. Its contents are pink and white and unidentifiable.

Flies. They whip past my ears. Tangle in my hair. Land on my skin. Buzzing drowns out the strangled scream that rips from my chest.

My fingertips claw at the grass outside the hole. The pain of my fingernails breaking is a distant impression as I dig them into the dirt and struggle to heave myself out. The grave pulls at my feet, refusing to release its hold.

I pull harder, ripping the grass from its roots. There is a sucking sound and suddenly I am free and laying on my stomach outside the hole.

Tears clog my vision and I bury my face in the grass, not wanting to look at the entrails covering my shoes.

Stupid war. Stupid fucking war.

 _You will fight for us, Caroline. You will become one of us. Why wouldn't you?_

The smell is still there. My stomach turns and I lurch to my feet. Sliding across the yard, I finally reach the water pump. The handle lets out a loud squeal as I furiously begin to push it down and, blessedly, water spews forth. It drenches my stockings, my shoes, my skirt, but the horror is washing away. It runs off my shoes, disappearing into the mud puddle that is quickly growing around me.

I'm left soaking wet and shivering in the cooling air. The sun is setting, but I don't want to go back inside. I don't want to stay here.

Making my way to the road, I turn towards Greta's house.

 _We don't like doing this to you. We wish we didn't have to._

Night has fallen by the time Greta's house appears. There is no answer when I knock and the inside is dark and quiet. I should have realized that she wouldn't be home. She talked about volunteering at the aid station when the war finally arrived in the village. She had been a nurse before, in The Great War. She is a patriot, through and through. Why she wants to be friends with me I still haven't figured out.

The night is chilling and I shiver in my thin sweater. I wish she were home. My only friend is my only refuge from times like this where the terror and loneliness threaten to overwhelm me.

My shoes squish as I turn to walk back to my bleak home. The road is uneven and littered with the trash of battle and picking my way through it takes time. As the moon rises there are cracks of gunfire and the dark figures of soldiers across the fields in the distance, but I do not pause to watch. My breath quickens and fogs the air in front of me. The soldiers move towards the horizon until I can no longer see them and the night becomes quiet again. It is still too cold for the birds and insects and the trees are utterly silent, looming blackly towards me. My hands shake inside my pockets and a sharp tingle races up my spine. My steps quicken as I approach the curve before my home. The distinct feeling of being in the wrong place at the wrong time looms large in the back of my mind.

My shoes skid in the dirt as I come around the bend in the road and stop short. A dark shadow is draped across my path, unmoving. A low whistle hums through the air. The figure was not there when I left. I'm sure of it.

The woods close in on either side of the road, cutting off any alternate route. My breath fogs faster as I edge around the figure, my eyes glued to it in wariness. The scraping of my soles on the gravel echoes noisily, joining the whistle to break through the darkness.

I'm not surprised when the silver moonlight reveals a soldier. Only the army and fools like myself are out on nights like this. The whistling gets louder and I see his chest moving up and down, up and down. But he says nothing and does not acknowledge me. His gun lay at his feet, still and out of his reach.

"Are you okay?" My voice is tiny and shrill as it makes its way past my choked vocal chords.

The whistling continues with no reply. Something is wrong. I edge closer, but his face is shrouded in darkness.

I should go home. I should wait for a patrol to find him. But what if he dies? What if it's my fault? What if they knew I didn't help?

 _This is you one chance. There are no mistakes. I'll be watching_.

I crouch beside the man, but he still doesn't move. I shake his shoulder. Nothing.

I look around as if there could be someone to help me. To tell me what to do. I'm as alone as ever.

Looking back down, I see it. A stain, black in the moonlight, creeping along the pebbles to me. Steam rises in the bitter air, telling me of its warm freshness.

What little heat that remains in my face drains away and I feel cold as my limbs freeze into place.

 _With death comes greatness. With death comes honor. Heroes are those who die for the Fuhrer._

There is the sound of more gunshots in the distance. The sharp pops knock me back into myself and I blink as I watch the stain continue to grow at an unchecked pace.

With stiff fingers I shove the man onto his back. Moonlight splashes across him.

His face is expressionless and his eyes are closed. The slice across his throat spews more blackness. His mouth his closed but the whistling continues. The blood on his neck fizzes.

Up and down. Up and down.

This time I don't bother to hold back and empty my stomach onto the road, my muscles heaving and cramping. The taste is bitter and defeating.

I wipe my mouth and take a deep breath, willing the air to restore my reason, when the back of my neck tingles.

I look up but the road is still quiet and empty. I look the other direction. There is no one. My tongue wets my cracked lips. Someone was here. Someone was looking at me. I could feel the eyes boring into me. The soldier was not here when I left. The wound is fresh. I look towards the woods.

 _You are your own greatest enemy, Caroline. Stop fighting us and we'll stop fighting you._

The eyes that meet mine are so bright they might as well not be hidden amongst the branches at all. Time slows. The eyes don't blink, and neither does mine. The muscles in my legs cramp.

Beside me the whistling stops.

I am on my feet as a figure explodes from the tree line. One, two, three, four steps, my legs pushing me into a run as my gate draws near.

The world tilts and my blouse tightens around my chest. I am yanked backwards, nearly losing my footing. My hand finds the grate of the gate and I pull myself onward, a scream building in my lungs. I lash out at the shadowed figure behind me, my heel connecting with something firm. There is the sound of a great gush of breath being released and the hold on my clothing goes slack. The gate clangs loudly as I shove it open, making a break for my door.

The pounding of heavy boots on the path behind me lets me know I am still being chased.

 _You will never know when we will be coming. Do not count on a warning._

The footfalls thunder up the porch steps as I burst inside. I move to slam the door closed but a foot jams into the doorway. I throw my weight against the door, the wood creaking under the force, as a hand wraps around the edge. Whoever is on the other side is pushing back and my shoes slide along the floorboards.

"Please!" I shout hoarsely. "I haven't seen anything! I haven't done anything! Go away!"

My voice falls on deaf ears. There is no response and the pushing continues. The door moves inward and I know I'm going to lose.

My visions flits about the room, looking for any escape. There is nowhere to go but through the back door. Maybe I can circle back to the road. Scream for help. Hide in the woods. _Anything_.

I've made it two steps when I hear the door crash against the wall.

Three more steps. The tugging on the back of my clothes resumes.

One more step. An arm around my waist, crushing me. I can't breathe. The back door is so close.

Like in some strange dance I twist against the body holding me. My hope to wrench free quickly dies when a second arm encircles me. The door rips from my vision, replaced by the ceiling as I am lifted off the ground. I throw my elbows, kick my feet, claw with my hands. I know I am hitting him but his grip does not loosen. I am lifted higher and I realize what is about to happen.

 _Do you know what a traitor is, Caroline?_

My back slams into the floor. The splinters of the vase break through and a hot flash of pain screeches across my nerves. Splotches of black dance across my vision as my head bounces against the cold wood. I can't see in the darkness. I can't see anything. My ragged breathing competes with his in the silent room. Moonlight streams in the open front door. The black outline of his figure hangs over me. He says nothing still.

Just a few meters to the door. My muscles tremble with exhaustion. I had to keep trying. He was going to kill me if I stopped.

I shoot upwards, throwing my fist towards what I think is his face. There is a satisfying _thwack_ as I connect with what is probably his jaw and then a flash of agony shoots up my wrist. I regain my footing as he rolls back.

My heart pounds in victory and I lunge towards the door. The floorboards thump behind me and then I am crashing to the floor again, a heavy weight on my back. My palms flatten against the wooden planks and I try to push myself upwards. My hand screams in protest and I get nowhere.

My last resort. My mouth opens to release the most bloodcurdling scream I can muster with his weight crushing me. My back cries out and I can feel a warm stickiness soaking my blouse.

A hand clamps on my mouth and my call for help comes out as a whimper. Another hand rips through my hair, pulling my head back.

"Stop fighting, or so help me God I will break your neck."

The words are growled in my ear, hot breath fanning my skin.

Resignation sets in and the strength drains from my limbs. I had been waiting for the time I would disappear and it was finally here. I should be pleased. The counting of days was over.


	3. Chapter 2

**Thanks you for the reviews! This is my first story, so the encouragement is much appreciated.**

Joe felt the relief course through him as she went limp in his arms. He had expected her to freeze with fear, to swoon and do whatever he said. A chase and drag-out fight was an unwelcome surprise. His jaw smarted from her blow and his side, already bloody from the battle, pulsed with a burning pain. But he couldn't let her get away. He couldn't let her notify the Nazis about his whereabouts. He needed shelter until he could figure out a way to get back to the line and she was going to provide it.

"Does anyone else live here?" She didn't answer, panting from behind his hand.

He gripped her hair tighter. "Answer me!"

The shake of her head was barely perceptible. Swallowing the scream of exhaustion his body delivered, he hauled them both to their feet. He kept his hand firmly planted on her mouth and his arm around her waist as he moved them towards the door.

Keeping her close, he ducked his head outside, his eyes darting through the corners of the yard and out to the road. The soldier lay in the same spot where Joe had slit his throat, limp with the unnatural stillness of death. Another body to add to the tally he had accrued since Normandy.

Killing had become natural in the long months he had spent on this continent. Almost routine. As soon as the Nazi had discovered his hiding spot in the woods and saw the Screaming Eagle on his shoulder Joe started formulating a plan to kill him.

If the soldier had known what was good for him he would have shot Joe on the spot.

But no. Instead the man had pictured himself triumphantly returning with an American POW. Perhaps his fellow soldiers would admire his catch. Perhaps his superiors would promote him. Joe could see the stars in the man's eyes as he took Joe's gun and ordered him to stand.

But he was a fool. Just because Joe was injured and without his rifle didn't mean anything, anything at all. The plan was achingly simple. He stopped to tie his shoe. The soldier let him. His knife slid silently from its sheath. The soldier didn't notice. He stood too close to Joe, so his muzzle was within easy reach. Surprise was the only reaction when Joe grabbed the barrel and pushed it away. He stepped forward, so the soldier would have to retreat to bring the rifle back around and aim. The soldier stumbled instead.

The slash of the knife was quick. Gurgling was the only sound. Again. To make sure no one could spread the word that an injured American was stuck behind enemy lines. Whistling as the windpipe was severed. Kill or be killed; that's what this war was about.

He wiped his bloody knife on the man's uniform and retrieved his rifle. The smooth wood fit in his hands like it belonged there. He had another tick mark to add to the butt. Another dead man on the list.

Then there were footsteps coming around the bend. He dove into the brush.

His initial idea was to simply shoot whoever appeared, but when he saw it was a civilian he hesitated. All Nazis are Germans and all Germans are Nazis, he had learned. Being without a uniform stopped mattering as soon as they crossed the Rhine. But as he watched her warily circle the dying man, he couldn't bring himself to aim. She didn't seem to be upset, didn't run raise alarm. She simply stared, a strange expression on her face. Perhaps she would walk on, and he wouldn't have to hurt her. Maybe if he didn't he would have a long shot of getting into Heaven.

The way tonight was going it wouldn't be a bad idea to shore up his soul. Just in case.

But once she did leave, what then? The pain in his side knifed through him. He couldn't tell if he was still bleeding. The darkness was his best chance of getting back to the line, unseen. But the cold exhaustion seeped into his bones. How far back was Easy pushed? Are far would he have to go? How long _could_ he go?

There was more gunfire in the distance. Running or hiding? Running or hiding? Running meant getting back to safety. Hiding meant not dying of exposure, this fucking hole in his side, or by a Nazi bullet. At least, temporarily. Easy was going to try again soon. He just had to wait.

He knew the moment she realized what happened. Her soft gasp echoed across the road. Then she was vomiting, her gagging replacing the whistling coming from the Nazi. He watched her wipe her mouth before she froze, her hand in midair.

The air around him became tight with tension and his mind hissed at him in warning. She could tell he was here. His side stabbed at him again and he knew what he had to do. The girl was going to regret walking down this road.

She lifted her head and looked directly at him. Their eyes met. Hers were wide with fear, but she gazed at him with a weary forthrightness that was unexpected. Then she took off like a startled rabbit.

He thought he caught her at the gate, but the kick to his stomach changed that opinion. The agony that shot through him from his side nearly doubled him over, but the sight of her making for the front door propelled him forward. If she locked him out it would be over for him. No place to stay and a civilian who knew where he was.

She tried to shut the door, but he was too fast. He vaguely heard her yell at him to go away, but haze of pain and the exertion from trying to push her back prevented him from responding.

With one final push, she gave way and darted towards the rear of the house. The second time he caught her he was more careful of her lashing feet and pulled her into him, trapping her with his body. The woman's fighting still wouldn't quell. Even as sweat dotted his forehead he had to admire her spirit. Her heels kicked at his shins and her fingernails clawed at his arms.

Lifting her up and dropping her wasn't planned. He needed to close the door before they were seen, and carrying her over there seemed to be the easiest course of action. Her elbow digging into his wound revealed a fatal flaw and she tumbled to the floor as his strength gave out.

The silence was wonderful and fleeting.

Then her fist connected with his jaw and he saw stars. Through them he could see her getting to her feet again. This time when he tackled her he was angry. He had not survived D-Day, had not lived through Bastigone, and had not made it into Germany just to be defeated by a wisp of a woman with a death wish.

His threat seemed to do its job and she didn't resist when he moved them to check outside. Her heart pounded under his arm. He lingered a few more moments in the doorway, waiting for the slightest whisper that he had been found.

The night was silent, indifferent to his plight.

The sound of the door shutting and locking was music to his ears and released the knot of tension between his shoulders. The girl remained silent and limp in his arms and he wondered distantly if he had knocked her senseless.

No matter. The fact that she was cooperating is what was important. The inside of the house was as dark and quiet as a tomb. In the dimness he could make out a few sparse pieces of furniture.

In the other homes he had stormed into a veritable treasure trove awaited them. Paintings, jewelry, statues, silver… the accumulations of an attempted empire. Loot, to them.

The bleakness of this room stared back at him. A chair. A table. Bare, whitewashed walls. He pricked his ears, but there were no creaking of floorboards, no soft whispers of bated breath beside their own. She was alone.

In the dimness he could make out an extrusion from in the far corner of the living room. A door to a cellar propped upwards. Perfect.

She was light and stiff as he hauled her up against him and dragged her over to the opening in the floor. The hole was black and foreboding. He wished he hadn't dropped his gun when she kicked him.

The light of his flashlight revealed a ladder and nothing else. He would either have to leave her up here and chance her running again or let her go down first and hope she wouldn't bean him with a frying pan when he got to the bottom. Or worse. Who knows what she had stashed down there.

He had to scare her. It seemed to be the only thing to make her concede.

The sound of his trench knife sliding from his boot was deafening in the closeness of the bare room. Behind his hand, her chin shook as he pulled the metal flush with her neck. He kept his voice low and gruff.

"I've been in a lot battles and have killed a lot a men. Quite a few with this knife. I'm good at killing, and if you so much as breathe wrong I will kill you too without a second thought. Cooperate and I'll leave you alone. It's simple. Do you understand?"

There was another hesitant nod. Her lips quivered against his palm and her breath was sharp as it hit his fingers.

"You are going to go down that ladder and stand at the bottom. Don't move from there or I will plant this right between your ribs."

He released her then but remained close, his muscles coiled and ready to spring if she so much as looked in the wrong direction.

His flashlight illuminated her as she stared at the hole, the muscles in her throat working as she swallowed. Through the blonde disarray of her hair the bloody red imprint from his hand was smeared across her mouth. She trembled, her skirt swinging against her torn black stockings.

"You're going to kill me regardless of what I do." She did not look at him and her flat voice echoed loudly between them, not betraying her thoughts. "Just be done with it."

He grit his teeth, shooting her an unseen glare. The girl was either calling his bluff or she really did have a death wish.

She had to catch herself as he shoved her forward, nearly stumbling into the opening before them.

"Move."

Her shoulders slumped and she made for the ladder with a resigned air. She looked up at him briefly as she reached the bottom, her blue eyes flashing against the light, before her gaze returned to her feet.

She didn't move an inch as he descended and grim satisfaction graced his lips with a hard smirk. The scan with his light revealed a basement as sparse as the house above. A cot. A washbasin. A stove and some food. Nothing that could be a weapon.

"Sit." He pointed and she did without a word, pulling her knees into her chest as she settled next to the stove.

He swung around, looking for a rope. There was nothing. A spare sheet rested on the shelf by the food. Good enough. His knife slid through it easily, the ripping the only noise in the room.

When he went to approach her again her face was buried in her hands, but she remained mute. Most women he knew would be dissolved into hysterical tears by now. He stood before her, trying to discern what was going on in her mind. She remained still, giving him no clues.

"Give me your wrists."

"What are you going to do to me?" Her eyes were red but clear as she looked towards him, her hands dropping to her lap. Her pupils remained unfocused as he kept himself hidden behind the brightness of the flashlight.

"I've done everything you've told me since my release. Just shoot me already. I don't deserve whatever you plan."

A noise of confusion almost escaped his lips before he swallowed it back. He paused, watching her watch the light. What the hell was she talking about?

"Give me your wrists," he repeated, the flatness of his voice covering his bewilderment.

Her face fell and her eyes squeezed shut and she offered her arms. He made quick work of tying them to the frame of the stove, yanking on the knots until he heard her sharp intake of breath. The risk was too great for him to care.

The final strip was for her mouth. Even at the isolation of this house, he knew screams could carry. Her head unexpectedly jerked back as he reached for her, smacking against the wall. Terror flashed across her face, the first real emotion he saw.

"Please don't." It was a whimper. "I won't yell, I promise. Just…please." Her eyes were huge in the shadows.

He didn't answer, catching her chin as she tried to jerk away again. There was a light tapping as her hands began to shake against the cast iron frame and her chest knocked his elbow as the breath heaved in and out of her nose.

Her eyes shut again as he wound the cloth around her mouth, knotting it on the back of her head. They didn't open as he stood, and he watched as she pulled her knees into her chest, dropping her head so that she formed a small ball almost hidden by the stove. His teeth caught the inside of his cheek.

 _Stop it_. Survival was the only thing that mattered now. He needed to get his weapon.

His side angrily reminded him of his folly as he make quick work of climbing back up the ladder. It had been so stupid. Retreat was rare. Retreat meant shit was hitting the fan and you needed to get your ass out of there. His dumbfuck self decided to be a hero and go after a soldier he saw huddled against a building, apparently pinned down. After all, it's what soldiers did for one another, wasn't it?

A death defying sprint earned him the sight of dead, blank eyes staring into nothing. Up close the bullet hold gracing the man's helmet was clear as day. The string of curses that erupted from him was lost in the haze of the firefight and he ripped off the man's dog tags. If he made it out of here at least the boy's family would know what happened.

When he looked up again, the sight of his unit was gone and he knew he was in trouble. The bullets raced after him as he darted for the hedgerows by the road.

He had never run faster in his life. He made it to the hedge and sprinted down the ditch to the side, hoping his head was low enough not to be a big fucking American target. The German words screaming from behind him told him otherwise and he dove as the hedge exploded with bullets. He was going to get trapped. A burning hulk of a tank was up ahead and he made for it.

The pinging of bullets off the metal greeted him. He paused to get his breath and look for his next safe harbor. A loud clank above him ripped his eyes from the road.

A grenade. It rested innocuously against the tank's burning turret, pointed right at him.

 _Shit_. He took off again, not that he had a fucking clue where to go. The force of the blast knocked him forward and that was when he felt the hot slicing just below his ribs, into the muscle of his stomach.

He landed back in the ditch, a few feet from a storm drain. Blood leaked through his fingers as he held himself while stumbling into it. He crawled as far back as he could, until the darkness closed around him and he could get into position to kill whoever tried to enter the hole. Unless they killed him first.

Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into hours. Sometimes the sounds of the Nazis were right by the entrance, other times it was the eerie silence that always settled after a battle. He quickly figured that they thought the grenade got him, but he didn't lower the rifle as darkness began to sweep over the countryside.

Once it was pitch black he thought he could find his way back to the line. That thinking didn't take into account the bitter cold that attacked him as his adrenaline wore off, or the blood that continued to soak his uniform. The soldier finding him was an unfortunate development.

The soldier. From the doorway the unfortunate son of a bitch was an indistinguishable lump in the middle of the road. Towards the gate was the glint of his rifle in the moonlight. About thirty, maybe forty feet away. His head whipped around, but the night was as quiet and still as he left it.

He was running faster than it felt and he inadvertently hit the gate. The loud clang echoed through his skull and he dropped to the ground, holding his breath as he waited for anyone to come investigate.

Nothing. He couldn't have picked a better place to hide out. No neighbors, no traffic. No one to investigate strange noises in the dark.

He slid the gate open and snatched his rifle from the gravel. Then he took off once more, and he was locking the front door again before he knew it.

The great gush of air he released deflated him and he sagged against the door, letting the last of his energy drain from him.

Maybe he should drag that soldier off the road. Hidden in the brush, it could buy him a few more days before the body was found. He peeked out the window again. The Nazi had been old and fat. He had to weigh at least fifty more pounds than Joe.

His side stung at the thought of trying heave such a burden into the woods. Who knows how long that would take?

No, it was too risky. He needed to prepare for whatever would happen. Maybe they would assume the soldier was a casualty in battle. Maybe he had nothing to worry about.

Hah. _That_ was relative.

His feet felt like blocks of lead as he stumbled over to the cellar door to return to his new sanctuary and new prisoner.


	4. Chapter 3

**Thank you guys again for the reviews! You are more than kind.**

 _Please don't do this. Don't make her watch._

 _Tell us what we want to know._

 _Do you know why you are here, Caroline?_

 _Stop screaming!_

 _Get this off. Get this off. Get this off._

"Hey!"

A dark figure before me. _Get this off. Get this off._ The room spins. I can't breathe. A hand shoots towards me. The flinch is instinctual and my head bangs against the stove.

"Jesus! Calm down, alright? You're going to fucking hurt yourself."

Blackness fills my vision as the figure hovers closer. My cheeks register the hot streaks of tears as my eyelids squeeze shut, blocking out this living nightmare.

 _Shut up or I will shut you up!_

Tugging at the torturous cloth biting into my face. _Get this off._ Aching screams from my muscles and I plead with myself not to move a hair's breadth, not to accidentally touch the arms encircling my head. He'll kill me. He was good at killing, he said. Enjoyed it, probably. I was nothing. No one worth sparing. The man they sent to finish me is cold and brutal like an assassin should be. Why he insisted on going to the cellar is because it is a suitable tomb. No one is ever going to know I was here.

A bomb would have blown me to smithereens during the battle if there was any mercy left in this world.

The air is cold against my face as the cloth falls loose and the warmth of the arms withdraws. My lungs burned with held breath. It escapes in a great gush from my freed mouth.

There is the sound of shoes scuffing on the stone floor. My eyes shoot open, but there is nothing but darkness and shadows. I wait for the gunshot, for the knife, for anything that might signify my executioner has deigned my life over. My heart rattles against my ribs, echoing the throbbing in my hand.

I jerk as the click of the flashlight echoes through the cellar, and the bright beam sweeps over my shelves. What is he looking for? Evidence of my transgressions? Shouldn't my file be enough?

My breathing is unnaturally loud in the stillness.

"Do you have a lamp or something?" His voice is deep and rough and it scratches against my skin. A shiver makes my bones tremble.

The light turns towards me and my world is suddenly blinding. I want to hide my face but my wrists are still locked to the stove. I duck into the crook of my elbow. I can tell the light doesn't move and there is the sound of heavy boots coming towards me.

 _Tell him. Keep him away_ , I think to myself. But my mouth refuses to form the words and my vocal cords choke against the icy hand of fear wrapped around my neck.

"I asked you a question. Can you understand me?" His voice sounds like it is right next to me. The smell of him – blood, sweat, cigarettes – is overwhelming. Calloused fingers grab my elbow and pull my arm away from my face. The flashlight lays me bare but I keep my eyes squeezed shut. The world spins and the ground shifts underneath me. Breath rushes in and out of my nose. _Don't faint. Who knows what he will do to you._

There is a muttered curse and the light moves away, leaving me in darkness once more. I regain more of my wits with every step he takes further away and the more distance is created between us. The more warning I will have when he strikes. I crack my eyes back open.

The washbasin clatters noisily across the stones as he kicks it away from the shelves. I don't own much and it doesn't take him long to find my lamp.

He uses the same match to light it and a cigarette. My hand is distracting as the light slowly gains strength. A bright red blush covers my knuckles and even through with the numbness curling from the tight binds the pain makes itself known.

As the dark corners of the room illuminate I know it is time to look at my killer but I let my eyes linger on my hand. Do I want to know who he is? Do I want to see the satisfaction on his face as he closes in? I'd rather not know what was coming and leave this world as suddenly as I came into it.

But my pride, though it is nothing but remnant shreds buried deep in my consciousness, protests. If he means to kill me then disappear back into the night like a nameless apparition, then I want him to know that I see him. That I will take his face with me to my grave. Cowardice has been a label I have lived under, but it shouldn't be one I die still clutching.

It takes the balance of my courage to raise my head and direct my stare towards the man, who by now had collapsed on the cot.

I expect a soldier. I expect a uniform. I expect a Stahlhelm helmet with a flared rim and his collar to be adorned with a _SS_ patch.

He is a soldier, and he is in uniform. But it is green, not gray. His helmet is round, and his patch is on his shoulder. An eagle.

My breath stops. I can't blink. My pulse pounds in my temples.

Oh my God.

The words are a thought, but his head snaps towards me like I have spoken. His helmet shadows his eyes, but the line of his jaw is thrown into sharp relief in the lamplight. I watch it move. He is talking, but I hear nothing but a murmur through the fog of shock engulfing my brain.

I am a dead woman. Perhaps not by the hand of this man, but all the same. They are going to find out. They are going to arrest me. If they thought I was a traitor before –

 _I don't need to tell you what is going to happen if you disappoint us._

Oh God. An American is in my cellar. An American is here with me. Why? _Why?_ How is he here? Out of all houses, he chose mine? No, no, no. He speaks German. His accent is Austrian. Not someone who learned it for the army. A native speaker.

Yes. Yes, that's it. He's a spy. His uniform is his cover. He is on our side.

But why attack me? Does he know me? If he is just a German soldier why am I tied to this stove? If he was sent here to kill me there is no reason for the disguise. Unless they thought I would welcome an Amer –

"What the _hell_ are you looking at?" His voice is loud and angry. I blink and there he is, nose to nose. My breath automatically sharpens and I recoil, but my bleeding back hits the wall. I clench my teeth from the pain.

His eyes are brown. They glare at me.

"Do you hear me? Do you understand me?"

Of course I do, but… but…

"American." I breathe. It's all I can manage.

His lips flatten into a thin line. For a flash I think of the recruitment posters in the village. Soldiers, drawn in sharp lines and broad shoulders, demanding victory against the Great Menace. All angry stoicism in dramatic lighting. He looks just like them, but it is wrong. It is all wrong.

"How…" My voice rasps in my throat. My lips crack painfully. A headache radiates across my skull and the gears grind in my brain. "German…" I can't think of the words. Like a marooned fish I can feel my mouth moving but nothing is coming out. He stands, still glaring.

"What? An American speaking German is some sort of surprise?" He scoffs and moves back over to the cot, grinding his spent cigarette under his boot. The next words are English. I only understand one – Nazis. The other sounds like a curse.

So he thinks I'm a Nazi. Well I am, aren't I? Isn't there a photo of me solemnly taking an oath to uphold the values of the Nazi party? That's all the proof anybody needs. He can't find out. It would make everything worse. Worse than it already is. An American soldier is trapped behind the line and he is using my home for shelter. This can't be happening. This can't be true.

My heart leaps against my ribs as the panic rises again. I can't get arrested. I can't go back there. I have been waiting for it, but I won't go. I will die here before they take me. The American might not kill me, but if they find out he is here the end of my story is written.

He needs to leave. He needs to get out of my cellar.

"You can't stay." My words are croaked. "You have to go."

He turns and his smirk is icy and cruel. "What are you going to do about it?"

He doesn't wait for an answer that I'm not sure I can give. The cot creaks loudly under his weight and he sinks down with a deep sigh.

He isn't going anywhere. I am trapped with him. He takes off his helmet and brown hair falls onto his forehead. His gun rests next to him. Dark smears of blood mar the stock.

He doesn't look at me as he lights another cigarette. I want to shut my eyes again, close him and this awful situation out, and disappear into the safe recesses of my mind. But I can't. My stare is glued to him as he unbuttons his jacket.

A grimace dances across his features and a soft hiss rises from his mouth. The jacket falls to the floor in a muddy pile and black wet blood soaks the side of his uniform shirt. He rips it off too. The white undershirt is bright red. He is injured.

By the time he is done his skin has gone white and glazed with sweat. His fingertips tremble slightly as they bring the cigarette to his lips.

I want to think he looks more human without the trappings of war hanging off him. Less dangerous, less deadly. I want to imagine him as some sort of guest instead of a captor.

But the sharp line of his jaw remains the same. The angles of his cheekbones are shadowed in the light. An Aryan nose that looks like it was drawn by Goebbels himself. If he weren't covered in dirt and blood he would be a perfect German hero. The only way someone like him would enter my life is to sign my death warrant. It is useless.

A glint of metal against his chest. Dog tags. And a –

A…a…

 _No_. _Oh please, no_. I was deluded in thinking this couldn't get worse. It _is_ worse. Oh God, so much worse. Finding myself in the company of an American is pure treason, but a…

"Jew. You're a Jew." I feel breathless.

He being Jewish is the finishing touch on this horrible story. Traitors get a quick death. Traitors who help Jews get a tortured one.

"Yes, I am." A flush returns some of the color to his cheeks. The intensity of his stare pierces through me and I retreat back into myself, pulling my knees tighter against my chest to bar him from me.

He rises again, the Star of David flashing on its chain. His height dwarfs me when I am standing and now he towers over me on the floor. "Do you have a problem with that?"

The clamp around my throat is back as his footsteps echo towards me. I only trust myself to shake my head.

"Good. Do you have some bandages or something around here?"

Copper and smoke. The smell comes from him in waves.

 _Watch, Caroline. Watch what happens to traitors._

"Stop acting stupid. I'm tired of repeating myself."

His eyes burn into me. I swallow, willing the words out of my choked throat. "Everything I have is on those shelves."

He turns away and disappears into the shadows on the other side of the lamp. I desperately try to move beyond my knee-jerk horror, to process what I am seeing and come up with any sort of plan to deal with the pure destruction that has arrived on my doorstep. If he doesn't kill me immediately, he will be found. I don't have secrets. I'm not allowed to have secrets. Especially ones pertaining to Jews.

I can hear things being moved about and my sewing kit flies from the darkness to land on the cot. A bottle of whiskey lands next to it. Not mine. The thick layer of dust covering the label confirms how long the previous tenants of my house have been gone.

My hands are going numb, interrupting the swirling circle of my thoughts. Twisting against the binds doesn't help loosen them.

He appears again, filling the small confines of the room. I feel hot, even if it is the dead of winter outside. There is too little space.

"Could…could you loosen my hands?" I try to sound confident. I try to give the impression that I wasn't deeply terrified. He looks up from pawing through the sewing basket. His expression tells me his answer before he speaks.

"No."

He pulls out a roll of thread. I need it; I won't get more ration cards for three more weeks. Nothing is freely given anymore. Fabric, food, gasoline… all needed for the war, I'm told. To achieve final victory.

How sewing thread will beat back the invaders I don't know. But this doesn't matter as I watch him pull off about a half a meter, cutting it with his knife. I've regained enough sense to not protest.

I swallow as he pulls off his undershirt. Modesty is no longer important. If people were modest I wouldn't be here right now and neither would he. Civility was lost as soon as the Brownshirts took power and beat it to death along with everything else that was good and decent.

My physical recoil is instinctive.

No, no, no. Mustn't think that. _Mustn't think that._ No need to bring more trouble down on myself. I'm already a traitor again in my actions. I can't be in thoughts too.

 _We were beaten. Made laughing stock of the entire world by Britain and France. Who returned us to glory? Who gave us back our respect?_

 _Our Fuhrer, sir._ My hand pulses with my heartbeat. I can't feel my fingers.

The pale planes of his torso are marred by a jagged red streak curling around his side. Drying blood oozes down to his belt. It looks painful and a brief glimpse of his face tells me it is. He grabs what is left of my sheets and cuts more strips.

The dried cork protests as he yanks it out of the liquor bottle and the _pop_ sounds like a gunshot. We both flinch.

He is silent as he takes a long swig, which quickly stops his shivering. More is poured on a patch of cloth. A brief hesitation, then he slaps it onto the wound. I hear a sharp intake of breath move past his lips and he closes his eyes, becoming still as stone.

XXXXXXX

Oh God. His side may have well erupted in flames. He wanted to yell. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to curl up and cry. The agony was all consuming and if it weren't for the girl staring at him, waiting for him to show weakness, he would have done something reserved for the heat of battle, when tears created no judgment and calling out for your mother was a rite of passage.

Instead he steeled himself to be silent and still. If he so much as blinked she would know that he was on his last rope.

The screaming pain pounded into him for what felt like hours before the intensity ebbed even remotely. Forcing himself to breathe through his nose to keep from passing out, he pulled the compress away.

The gash was bloody and angry, but the edges showed pink as the alcohol dissolved the dirt.

He found the one sulfa pack left rattling around his empty aid kit and poured it onto the mess of blood and liquor. He had no fucking idea what he was doing, but maybe there was a chance he wouldn't die of gangrene.

He needed nicotine. Haze still drifted through the air from his first two smokes, but his third was just as sweet. The tobacco and alcohol – always a blessed combination – held his hands firm as he threaded the needle.

He braced himself as he used his fingertips to press the wound closed. He needed to do this. He needed to stop the bleeding.

The sensation of the needle piercing his skin was lost in the general fog of pain shooting through his chest. It was a small mercy.

Twenty-four stitches. He stabbed himself with the needle, pulled the thread through, and fought the urge to faint for twenty-four stitches. Across the room the girl did not so much as breathe, her eyes following his hands. His cigarette was burnt down to the filter, but he kept it secured between his lips if only to seal away the groans rolling up his throat.

Might as well make this as miserable as possible. He poured fresh whiskey over his sewn side, the burn making his jaw ache as it clenched. But it was better. See? The stitches were already working.

Getting the cork back into the whisky bottle was nearly insurmountable. His arms felt limp and his fingers were clumsy. He sagged against the wall behind him, eyelids heavy. The vision of the woman blurred. He was so tired. When was the last time he slept? The day before yesterday? The tying of the stitches pulled the last of his energy from him and now he was empty and ready to collapse.

What was she going to do if he closed his eyes for a few minutes? His knots hadn't loosened and he would hear if she tried to escape. This was the safest place he was going to be until he was back amongst his brothers. Yes, he needed to get some sleep eventually.

The blackness that took him was so swift and sudden that he didn't get a chance to tell the girl to be still and quiet. Time and fate would tell him if this was a mistake or not.


	5. Chapter 4

**Hi everyone! Thanks for reading my story! I apologize for any formatting errors; I am copy/pasting from Word and sometimes weird things happen.**

 **Enjoy!**

His eyes slide closed and his breathing evens out. He might be asleep, or he might be dying. I can't tell and now I'm trapped. The binds do not give a centimeter when I tug on them. What if he doesn't wake up? What do I do then?

The cellar is unnaturally quiet as he remains still. My wrists are screaming and my legs are cramped. My back aches with every move. The stove isn't lit and the coldness of the ground seeps through the wall, radiating into my body. I can't stay here.

"American." I don't know his name. My voice is soft. Startling him might make him angry. He could jerk and tear his stitches and then I would be in trouble.

I didn't want to watch him patch himself up. Blood is a terrible sight that I am not of mind to be around again. But he did it so calmly, so assuredly, that my fascination at the scene kept my eyes glued to his hands. A man, sewing his side up like it was a hole in a pair of trousers, the compulsive inhaling on his cigarette the only sign of his discomfort.

He said he has killed before, many times. Gore is probably a familiar sight to him, I imagine.

He is not stirring.

"Hey, American." My voice is louder and he shifts, eyelids fluttering. It is sleep then, not death, which has taken him.

So I must wait. I test my fingers. They still move, but tingling pinpricks are all I feel outside of the ache in my right hand. It is beginning to swell.

I stare at him in the silence. The Star of David shimmers with every rise and fall of his chest. The coincidence of this would be hilarious if it wasn't so tragic. I try to do everything right. I follow their little manifesto to the letter. But it isn't enough. A Jewish American soldier has burst into the narrow frame of my existence. Everything is going to ruin again.

He didn't know he had stumbled into the cellar of Hester Prynne. A woman who draws stares wherever she goes, who has as much anonymity as a… well, as an injured American soldier in the heart of Germany.

How long will he stay? How long can I hide him? Is he going to wait for the Allies to attack again, or will he leave as soon as he gets his strength back?

The latter gave me a chance to save my skin. If he didn't kill me before then of course. I am nothing but a liability – someone who is waiting for an opportunity to run. Or scream. Or fight. His skin will be just as saved if I were dead. After all, I'm just another Nazi.

Nazi. What a label to take. It's not like I have a choice.

 _But you do. You know exactly what your options are._

I blink, trying to hold back the inevitable memories that always arise when I think about my oath. The alternative to being a Nazi is being dead. But the Nazis aren't my friends and my loyalty is a product of fear, not of conviction. I have been waiting for them to kill me anyway. They make my life a meaningless routine, a cycle of days devolving into deeper and deeper depression. What type of life is this to lead? Is a fear of death strong enough to withstand an existence devoid of any meaning? Helping him gives me a chance of redemption, of saving the soul of the girl I used to be. I am still capable of compassion. I still know who is on the right side, and it isn't my countrymen.

A string of cold laces up my spine.

 _Wrong answer Caroline. How far do we have to go until you are loyal to your Fuhrer?_

Brainwashing. This is the brainwashing. I need to keep it together. Given the opportunity, would I risk everything to help him? Even if it means a fate worse than death?

Sweat breaks out on my forehead. Black memories. My consciousness slips towards the spiral of the rabbit hole that is my past.

 _Hollow cheeks. Small and narrow eyes. A thin mustache. Straight, white teeth flashing in a smile. Your education starts today. It's time to teach you how to be a true German._

I need to distract myself before I slip away. I focus on my hand, praying that the pain will lead me away from the well-worn path of tragedy tread through my brain.

 _Cold, smooth wood of the desk under my fingers. Answer our questions, Caroline._

 _Stop crying. Stop crying!_

It's not working. It's _not_ working. I pull against the bindings.

 _It is so hot. My heart feels like it was going to explode. Gravel crunching under my feet. Stop and you fail. Failure is reserved for those who have no use for the Fuhrer._

There is a distant banging, throbbing through the wall and into my body.

 _Who is your leader?_

 _Mien Fuhrer._

Breath hisses through my teeth. I was a good student. The banging is getting louder.

 _Who are the disgraces to this nation?_

 _Judentum._

I could recite the answers. I knew what they wanted to hear. And, God, there were times I wanted to believe it. With every bone in my body, I wanted to believe it. Things would be so much easier. There were moments where I could convince myself that I did.

 _Who is your enemy?_

 _Britain._

 _And?_

But in the end it was always fear. Fear of the future and fear of the past. Fear of the things I had seen happen to the ones I loved. Fear made me survive and fear made the words that came out of my mouth.

 _Amerika._

 _BANG_. My eyes snap open and there is the heavy thump of boots as the soldier leaps off the cot. He stumbles slightly, one hand wrapping around his gun and the other holding his side. His eyes are wild and confused and dart towards me.

Upstairs, the banging continues, ringing through our small chamber. Someone is at the front door. Tension knots my muscles even tighter. They know I'm in here. It's past curfew. I will be in trouble if I stay down here.

The American curses.

"I need to answer." I try to keep calm. Time was ticking. "If I don't I'll get arrested for breaking curfew. They'll find you.'

"Wouldn't you like that?" he snarls, striding towards me. I get another glare as I recoil back, avoiding him.

He undoes the binds quickly, despite their tightness. My wrists are red and bruising. Feeling shoots painfully back into my fingers. A rough hand clamps onto my elbow and yanks me to my feet. I stumble but his hard grip holds me steady.

The cold barrel of the rifle presses into my cheek. His face is inches from mine.

"I am going to be behind the door. Say one wrong word or make one wrong move and I will blow your _fucking_ head off. Do you understand?"

He gives me a small shake with each word. He looks so angry and so brutal that the blood drains from my face. I nod.

I nearly lose my footing as I'm shoved towards the ladder. With shaking hands I guide myself up to the main floor. The soldier follows behind closely, holding his rifle and still shirtless. I don't think he feels the cold.

The banging still continues as I make my way to the door.

"Remember," the American hisses, positioning himself against the wall behind the door. The rifle flashes in the weak light.

His eyes burn into the side of my head as I look out the window. The sight that greets me is what I expect. Herr Schueller stands on the porch, two men in army uniforms flanking him. Their height dwarfs his small stature. He looks irritated.

I don't want to be arrested. I take a deep breath, trying to wipe the panic of the last few hours from my face.

Steeling myself, I pull open the door.

XXXXX

The girl's façade of calmness was painfully thin. He could tell even in the dark. This was probably not going to go smoothly. Whoever was outside needed to be dissuaded from lingering, which was not something that was in her best interest. His finger smoothed over the trigger guard of the rifle. He had a full magazine, which should be enough as long as there wasn't a whole goddamn company out there.

The door opened with a creak. It came to a rest softly against him, her hand still on the knob. She had already bolted on him twice. He needed a way to tether her in place, to keep her close. Her skin was clammy as he fixed his hand over hers, keeping it on the knob. She started, swinging the door slightly, but her expression remained neutral.

"Herr Schueller," she greeted, her voice strained. He tightened his grip in warning. She blinked. "Good evening." It was more relaxed now.

"Frauline Alsbach." A wormy voice roped into the room. "I have been knocking. Why didn't you answer?"

The girl's cheeks pulled into a tight, polite smile. Her disdain was palpable. She didn't appear to be friendly with the visitor, and he didn't appear to want to spare any niceties either.

"Excuse me. I was asleep in the cellar and did not hear you."

A shadow fell over the floorboards as the Schueller fellow leaned forwards. The girl shuffled her feet backwards. Joe licked his lips.

When he spoke again, his voice was closer like he was over the threshold. "Really? Why on earth would you be in the cellar?" The words traveled like he was moving his head around, surveying the room.

"My bed is down there. For protection." He could feel her hand flex under his. She didn't like this man being here, and he began to doubt it had anything to do with the fact that an American soldier was hiding two feet away.

"Protection from what? The Americans have been defeated. They ran like dogs with their tails between their legs. There is nothing to worry about. I would almost think that you have no faith in our victory."

Joe's jaw ticked. The girl's lips flattened for a moment.

"Of course not, Herr Schueller. I just had not heard what was going on so I decided to be safe until I knew the Americans had been beaten."

Her voice was soft and detached. The visitor made up for it in spades.

"Well, then. Consider this your notice that we have prevailed against the enemy. I expect you to return to normal, like a good Party member."

His nostrils flared as the words hit him like a punch in the gut. She was a Party member? Not just a civilian, but also a member of the fucking Nazi Party? Jesus Christ, he knew how to pick them.

"Yes, sir."

"Now, onto the why am visiting at such a late hour. Have you seen anything unusual tonight?"

The moment of truth. She didn't answer immediately as she leveled her stare at Schueller for a few excruciating seconds. Then her expression suddenly relaxed and his pulse ratcheted higher. She had made her decision and whatever it was she was at peace with it. Whether that meant blood was about to be shed, either his or theirs, was something she had clearly reconciled with. The cool metal of the rifle rested heavily against his chest as she opened her mouth to speak.

"No, sir." _Oh thank God._ "Like I said, I was in my basement."

His hand relaxed marginally on hers as he let himself ease against the wall. She was on his side, for the moment at least. But being a goddamn Party member, who knows what plan was ruminating behind that fake sincerity. Maybe she was saving him to hand over to the bigger fish. After all, if he had to guess, he would say she couldn't stand Schueller.

"You seem unsure." The words were pointed and he heard the visitor take another step inside.

"The battle was terrifying, Herr Schueller. I have experienced a lot of unusual things over the last few days. I'm trying to figure out if you mean there was something in particular I should have seen." Her expression dripped with patronization. Whatever the relationship between these two was she obviously felt like she had some form of impunity. A needle of worry worked through the back of his brain. A man disrespected is a man who might do something rash. Like search a house.

The man's tone conveyed his growing aggravation. "Yes, well, we found one of our men out on the road. His throat has been cut. It must have been quite a struggle. You didn't hear anything?" The words were drawn out, suspicion filling the spaces.

Joe silently let out a breath. Quite a struggle. Sure. Might have well been gutting a pig for amount of fight the soldier put up.

"No, I haven't."

There was a beat of silence. Her throat worked, swallowing. Her fear was getting to her, peeking through the mask of disdain. "Wouldn't something like that have happened during the battle?"

He had to give her credit. Despite everything she came off as sounding bored. This was more than he expected for a Nazi he was holding captive.

"That is what you _think_ , is it?" The man's snarl was deep and hateful. He was apparently done being civil. Her face remained neutral, but she swallowed again. The dull rattle of the doorknob sounded as he felt her hand shiver. _Don't blow it._

He wondered how he was going to get around her and the door to fire before whoever was on the other side could react and kill them both.

"If I wanted to know what a dirty partisan _thought_ , Caroline, I would have asked."

The girl's – Caroline, he supposed – shoulders stiffened.

"You know I'm not – "

"I don't care what they say. I don't give a damn how you convinced them to let you go. I know what you are, Caroline. You're lucky my ideas on how to deal with you were overruled."

There was no response from Caroline. The man continued on, malice slicing through his words.

"Now, I don't want to be here longer than I have to. What do you know about the dead soldier in the road?"

"Nothing." Her voice was barely above a whisper, but her gaze was unwavering.

"Nothing? Really? A man dies steps from your door and you are completely oblivious?"

The man was pushing hard, dancing close to the truth. All he had to do was yank the door back. Joe decided he was going to throw a punch first. There might not be enough room to bring his rifle up.

"I guess so." Frustration flickered across her face as the words left her mouth. She was being impetuous and her tone bordered on defiant. He knew it was the wrong move. Her eyes widened as she realized it too.

The air changed immediately, becoming thick with an anger centered on the Nazi.

A hand clad in black leather reached out, snatching her free arm. She immediately tried to pull away, her hand coming off the knob as she retreated. He grabbed at it, but Schueller pulled her forward at the same time, causing her to slip from his grasp.

 _Shit shit shit_.

Her backwards shuffling had pulled the Nazi further into the house, and now Joe could make out the back of the man in the dim light. For such an angry, loud individual, he was just barely taller than Caroline. His short, sandy hair poked out of the back uniform hat perched on his head and his well-fed paunch caused his gray coat to stretch tightly across his back.

Over the man's shoulder he could see Caroline's white face. Her mouth was fixed in a grave expression. If she so much as glimpsed at him the gig would be up. But her eyes didn't move from the face of the Nazi, who was grasping her hand in a tight fist, holding it to him. A strangled noise emerged between them and it took a second for Joe to realize it came from her. She bit her lip and looked down at her captive hand, not sparing a glance at him still hidden behind the door.

"Found some courage, did you?" Her gaze whipped back to the Nazi's face. He could see her free hand trembling, her body taught with tension. "Remember what that got you last time." The words were spoken in a low and dangerous tone.

The fist tightened and she inhaled sharply, her knees buckling. "One phone call, Caroline. It only takes one phone call and you'll disappear forever."

"If you hate me that much then make it." Her audacity was admirable, even if the words were tight with pain.

Joe blinked in surprise as the man raised his fist to deliver her a blow. Jesus, what the hell was happening here? What sort of house had he stumbled into? What kind of woman was this Caroline?

The hand paused mid air.

"What is on your face?"

Joe froze. The blood. She had blood on her face from his hand. _Fuck_.

Caroline was panting heavily.

"Loosen up on my hand and I'll tell you."

A reluctant cry emerged from her lips as he only tightened his hold. Her legs gave out and she went down to her knees.

"Why do you have blood on you face? _Did you kill the soldier?"_ He was yelling now. Joe tightened his finger around the trigger

"No." Her voice whispered by him. "It's from my-" A groan cut her off, pain etched into every line of her face. Joe felt his lips pull into a frown.

"It's from my back. I hurt my back." The words were released in a great rush as she gulped for air, body heaving. "Please…"

The Nazi didn't respond for a moment and he could see the wheels turning in the little man's head. Joe willed himself to hold still, not even daring to breathe. The lie was going to be discovered. He knew he hadn't hurt her enough to bleed.

Caroline sagged as the hold on her hand was released. The man wasted no time in shoving her around, displaying her back to scrutiny. Joe felt like he was going to explode from the tension ripping through him. He silently fit the butt of his rifle into the hollow of his shoulder. Aim and shoot. That was all that was left.

Her blouse was black and he couldn't see anything. But as the Nazi moved the weak light – a combination of moonlight and the headlights from a vehicle parked outside – glinted off the fabric, illuminated a wet, heavy stain. _Goddamnit._

How the fuck had that happened? He had scared her. He had tied her up. But he as sure as shit didn't do _that_.

"Got into some sort of accident, did you?" The man sneered.

By way Caroline was angled he could see her gently cradling her injured hand. Blonde hair obscured her face. It trembled as her body shook.

"Yes. I was clumsy and cut myself."

"Figures," the Nazi muttered. The black glove reached out again, tangling itself in her hair and pulled her head back. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

"See that you watch yourself, Caroline. I don't want to come back here again."

She said nothing and he released her head with a shove.

A person like Schueller couldn't leave without a parting shot. His foot planted in the middle of the bloody mess of her back, tossing her forward.

She caught herself from falling flat on her face with one hand, keeping the other tucked against her middle. Her body heaved as she gasped for air.

Joe stiffened as the door swung away from him, but Schueller did not notice his bulk hidden in the shadows. The door slammed shut, the bang causing both he and Caroline to wince.

They stayed where they were – Caroline panting on the floor, Joe flattened against the wall – until the headlights outside swept away and the sound of a motorcar engine faded into the night. Unnatural silence blanketed the room. He slowly allowed the rifle to fall back to his side. His arms ached. His relief was overwhelming.


	6. Chapter 5

My hand. _My hand_. The pain that I thought was bothersome before is excruciating now. I bite my lip, holding back the moans of agony threatening to spill forth. I could live without it. Just cut it off if it makes this pain _stop_.

"Caroline," an even voice says from the shadows. The soldier. He is still here. This is _his_ fault. If he hadn't decided to inflict himself on me I wouldn't have broken my hand on his jaw and Herr Schueller would have left me alone. I would be in bed right now, warm and asleep. Instead blood has soaked the back of my blouse and I am a heartbeat away from being arrested.

And _my hand_.

I have enough problems without him deciding to hold me hostage.

"Learned my name, did you?" My voice is rough and sharp.

I hear him softly snort. "Look out the window and make sure they are gone."

I briefly consider telling him where he could go with his orders. Unspoken insults meant for Schueller teem on the back of my tongue. I want to unload on the man causing all of this disruption.

I look to the window. I'm afraid that the sight of Schueller still on my property will lead me to do something impulsive. God, _my hand_. I hate Schueller. I hate him and I want him to be as miserable as I feel. I want the tables to be turned, for me to be the one with the power. And I will make him regret everything he has done to me. I want him to die slowly, painfully –

 _You always were my best student._

 _Not again._ This is what they want. This is the savagery they desire, the abyss they want me to fall into. The one that eventually did consume me and turned me into his ideal student. If I ever meet that darkness again, it won't be Schueller, whose importance begins and ends with the limits of this little village, on the receiving end.

"Caroline." The tone breaks through my thoughts. It is threatening. I swallow back the things I want to scream at him and my eyes burn with tears of pain. I can afford to be mouthy with Schueller. The American has no directive to keep me alive.

My legs are wobbly as I drag myself over to the window. The yard is as empty and dark as ever. A black smear is all that remains of the man I found in the roadway.

"They've left." I barely have the words out before a sweaty hand wraps around my arm and I'm being propelled back to the cellar opening. Back to my prison.

He doesn't threaten me this time before directing me down the ladder. I had my chance to escape. The fact that I didn't take it must mean something to him.

If only he knew my decision to not reveal him was not driven by his best interests. My mind is still in a tangled heap when it comes to his arrival. There are too many threads, too many things to consider before I could have a distant idea of what to do. But one thing is clear – if the American is to be captured, I do not want Schueller to have anything to do with it. He does not deserve it. The little power he already possesses makes him insufferable; to catch an American would do nothing but feed his hero-complex.

Regardless, my interaction with Schueller significantly decreases the chance that I will get clemency if I do turn the American in. They will know I lied to him. They won't care about my reasons. And turning him in means I will have to let go of the idea that I am still a good person and succumb to the years of their indoctrination.

So in the end there are my choices: blossom into the Nazi they want me to be and become the cruelty that it entails, or betray everything to help a man who treats me with nothing but suspicion and contempt. Both may prove to be fatal.

My headache returns with a painful wave. I don't know what to do. The only distant hope I have is that he leaves on his own accord, leaving me no worse off.

I'm not graceful enough to descend down the ladder without using my arm. He stares at me from above, not offering help. Stumbling, I fall more than climb back into the cellar. He follows and I remain still at the bottom, inspecting my hand. The marks from Schueller's fingers are white against the red swollen skin.

"Who was that man?" The closeness of the soldier's voice startles me. He stares at me with his same steady intensity. Despite the chill of the room a sheen of sweat glistens on his face and chest. Pink blooms on the skin around his makeshift stitches.

"What does it matter?" I don't want him prying. I don't want to talk to him. I just want to try to take care of my hand.

"Answer my question."

His tone is dismissive, utterly uncaring of my pain or my predicament. A glance at my hand, a concern if I am alright – some sort of action to show his humanity would go a long way in alleviating the weight that I feel slowly crushing me, becoming heavier with every passing minute he stays here. But there is nothing, only an impassive, blank look and probing questions to show how ungrateful he is that because of me he is not dead yet. That whatever is happening here is to be expected and that I am nothing more than collateral to be used to achieve whatever ends he deems necessary. Adrenaline surges in my veins and anger shoots through me again. I feel my cheeks heat. He is utterly unlikable. Rude, cruel, threatening. I may not know what to do in this situation, but for the moment at least we are allies in avoiding the wrong side of a firing squad.

"I've broken my hand, sliced up my back, and withstood that-that miscreant's abuse for you. You could at least treat me with some semblance of manners. Or is it true what they say about the American _barbarians_?" I am nearly hissing now, cumulative exhaustion and pain fueling the recklessness taking hold in my gut. I may have been stunned senseless earlier. I may have collapsed into a pitiful puddle at the thought that he was sent by them to kill me. But now I know where we stand. And that means he doesn't have to be friendly, but he needs to stop treating me like some sort of POW.

He doesn't answer right away and my hand throbs. The cold fierceness of his gaze beats into me.

"So he was right about you finding some courage." The side of his mouth lifts into a half smile. It is humorless.

"You don't know me. You have no idea what you are talking about." My words are hot and furious. I feel the pinprick of my nails biting into the palm of my good hand. This is all his fault, and he mocks me.

"I know enough. You're a fucking Nazi. That's all I need."

"That's my _point_. If you would show me a little bit of courtesy, I can help you get back to the American side." I have no idea if this is true or not. I want it to be. I want him to be gone.

"It's all that matters. If you were interested in helping me – "

I cut him off, resisting the urge to slap him. "I covered for you with Herr Schueller! Or did you want to be arrested and interrogated? You could at least be a little grateful – "

"That's meaningless. Your options are to cooperate or die, so you tell me if you are just helping me out of the goodness of your heart."

His words are so close to my thoughts that for a moment I don't know how to respond. Fortunately he doesn't notice, his eyes flashing as he continues. " _And_ you are the one who tried to break my jaw."

I grit my teeth, frustration bubbling to the surface. "You stunned me before. I was not expecting to run into an American out there."

"I was not expecting to get stuck on the wrong side of the line. But here I am-"

"So I get punished because you can't win a battle?" The words snake off my tongue before I could think, my judgment clouded by the haze of righteous anger.

I can't read his face before a firm hand surrounds my arm. Then I am being yanked until the rough stone wall bites into the fresh scabs between my shoulder blades. The American crowds in close, his heat stifling me. I can't breathe. My broken appendage is trapped between us, his bare chest brushing painfully against my knuckles.

"No." The words are low and hard with fury. "You are being punished because you are a _fucking_ Nazi who started this _fucking_ war. You know how many of my friends I have had to watch die because of your little venture? And how many more have lost legs and hands and God know what else? Have you heard a man beg for death, just to end the agony? So don't you dare speak as if you know _anything_ about what is going on out there. I am being nice to you. Given the opportunity, I have killed every German I have come across since this started. I've mowed down an entire field of SS soldiers. One by one, before they could even fight back. You are not dead. So there is your _courtesy_. But if you're not careful you are going to end up as just another notch on the butt of my rifle."

He pauses, taking a breath. "Now be a good little German and answer my question. Who was that man?"

I look at him, taking in his narrowed gaze and the determined set of his jaw. I look for the signs to call his bluff, to reassure myself that he was just scaring me to get what he wants. I search his face for the clues that are always apparent behind Schueller's bluster.

His eyes are black in the dim light and I see nothing but resolute determination. There is nothing, absolutely nothing to deter me from believing he was speaking the truth.

I chance a glance at his rifle as it rests on his shoulder, the butt falling towards his thigh.

The marks are stark in the shadows. Too many to count.

 _Oh Caroline. How long will it take to break you?_

I shudder against the unwelcome intrusion of the voice.

The American's hand wraps around my neck, his fingertips finding purchase on my jaw. There is no pain in his grip, only warning. He draws my head back up, until I can't avoid his gaze. His skin is unnaturally pale, but his hand burns into my skin.

"This is your last chance."

All he has to do is squeeze and my life is forfeit. There is no doubt flickering behind his gaze. I was right before. I am nothing but a liability. I never had a chance.

I blink first, conceding defeat.

"He is our village's _Ortsgruppenleiter_."

His features relax a minuscule degree as he appears to think, the peaked color of his cheeks deepening.

" _Ortsgruppenleiter_? I do not know that word. What is it?"

The muscles of my neck bob against his palm. "Our local Party leader."

Then he is gone, moving across the cellar towards his equipment belt on the cot. A dry, wry laugh that bubbles from his chest is cut short as he grabs his side with a sharp intake of breath. I stay against the wall as I watch him fumble for his canteen, his fingers shaky and unsteady. He drinks greedily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Yes, I am the guest of fucking Party member. What are the odds?"

I don't respond, observing him. His eyes are unnaturally bright in the dim light and his steps are less sure. Sweat beads on his forehead. He looks less like the terrifying apparition of my nightmares and more like a man who has drunk too much. And it is getting worse. Something wet and yellow is emerging between the stitches on his stomach.

 _Infection_. A fever is taking hold. It had probably set in before he even found me. I have seen it before, in my previous life.

 _I don't want to die. Please don't leave me._

But I make no mistake. When he gathers around me again I don't fight him. The muscles of his arms flex as he plants his hands on either side of my head. Sick or not, his resolve to kill me if needed is unwavering.

"It doesn't seem like he thought much of you. Why is that?"

I look away, over his shoulder and towards the ladder. This is a story so entwined with the ruin of my past that to speak of it would reveal too much. The American knowing about the circumstances of my arrival here and the conditions that have become my day-to-day existence is antithetical to keeping him from killing me.

My loathing for Schueller revolves around the little miseries he single-handedly created– miseries that collude to keep me locked in my house with the knowledge that I will never be anything other than the outcast. Because of him I linger in the fringes of village life, the doors to my participation shut and locked. He wasn't told everything, but he knows enough to make sure I am unwelcome where ever I go. The whisper campaign was swift and my shunning was immediate on my arrival. Any idea that I could be normal again – however remote the possibility – was brutally crushed with his first visit and his first display of the authority he welded through his fist.

The townspeople tolerate him like they would any bureaucrat. Some even respect him just because of the uniform he wears. But after that day, after he made it clear that all the things I have endured and all the things I have done were meaningless in the face of his indiscriminate hate, I knew that our discord would be permanent. Even if the things he did – what they allowed him to do to me – were mere inconveniences compared to what I had come from, his refusal to see me as reformed made everything that had come before meaningless. And if it was meaningless, the fact that it happened made the void in my soul all the more unfixable.

So my animosity is well-seated. And the limits to his power meant that pushing me around was the worst he could do. If reverence is required with every other uniform I meet, the chance to be an impudent thorn in his side rarely goes by without me grasping it as the last outlet for the strength I have left. Only the threat of a full beating keeps me from being outright hostile.

"It's a mutual sentiment." I return my gaze to his.

"I would think his feelings are little stronger than yours." He looks down at the hand I still am holding to my chest. "Why did he call you a partisan?"

I wave my good hand, trying to appear unconcerned. His eyes narrow and I know he doesn't believe me. "It's all politics. He is a bully. I don't like him and he knows it."

His countenance darkens at this admission. "You almost got me caught. Were you trying to provoke him enough to make him stick around? Maybe search the place?" He leans in closer, his breath fanning across my face. "I have to admit, watching you get beaten would not have been something I expected. It would have definitely made me drop my guard long enough for you to make a move. An ingenious plan, if a bit sacrificial for my taste."

"I doubt I could do anything while getting my face broken," I protest softly. He shrugs halfheartedly.

"And I thought you wouldn't fight me when I grabbed you on the road. You've proven me wrong once already. Why else enrage a man who is here to look for me?"

"If I hadn't he would have known something was wrong. He expects me to be unpleasant."

He moves away again, taking the intense heat radiating from his skin with him. The shadows of his back shift as he reaches up to wipe his face. "What if he makes that phone call? He said you would disappear. What then?"

"It was an empty threat."

He looks at me, the perspiration on his face making his hair stick to his skin. "How? It seems to me that a local Party leader could arrest whomever he wants."

I gaze at him, my mind blanking. A believable lie is almost as hard to come up with as telling the truth. My brain goes into overdrive as he continues to stare, almost seeing right through me. He would know if I was untruthful. He will tear my story apart, leaving nothing but the naked, horrible reality behind. The reason why Schueller was so cruel. The fact that any call to arrest me had to come from a much higher authority than an _Ortsgruppenleiter._

Then he blinks and sways dangerously. His brow furrows and he rubs his face again.

"Your wound is getting infected," I try, desperately hoping that his mind is befuddled enough to forget the conversation we are having. "You need to rest –"

"Sit down." He points a finger at my former spot by the stove. For the first time a note of uncertainty enters the icy temblor of his voice.

Watching him, I comply. He follows me, his eyes un-focusing as he fumbles with the torn sheets that had been my binds. Dark circles have sunken into the hollows below his eyes. Up close his weeping side is putrid. Whatever he had done was going to kill him.

"Please don't tie me up. You need help. I can-" He roughly grabs my wrists and a cry of agony shoots out my mouth, cutting me off. He ties the knots, his fingers slipping from the fabric. It takes him two attempts before he stumbles away from me, landing on the cot with a heavy groan, his eyes already shut.


	7. Chapter 6

Silence descends and I wait for the throbbing in my hand to subside. The cloth around my wrist is depressingly familiar. But the fever had made him clumsy and uncoordinated and he wasn't as careful as before. The knot isn't tight.

My eyes dart back over to his form, sweaty and flushed on the cot. His eyes are still closed and he doesn't appear to be in a condition to notice what I'm doing. This is my chance.

The knot is on top of my bound hands, facing me. Another quick glance at the soldier. Even though he seems to be comatose, the image of him finding me trying to escape rattles my nerves with fear.

The cloth tastes sour with my sweat and blood. I yank on it with my teeth and it only takes three tugs before my hands fall free. Then I'm on my feet, standing with the soldier on my right and the ladder on my left.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins at my escape. I clench the cloth in my good hand. Should I tie him up? Then what?

I can't tie knots with one hand and I don't want to try. I need to get my hand fixed. I need to see Greta. What if he wakes to find me gone? He will leave. Yes, he will have no other choice. He doesn't trust me. There is no reason for him to think I haven't gone to the authorities. That would solve all my problems. Then I won't have to decide. I won't have to choose which side of line I stand.

He groans and I stiffen, but his eyes don't open. He will probably kill me if he finds me loose. Telling him that I won't turn him in won't do any good. That will just lead to questions. And I've had enough of those. My silence in the face of his quest for answers will be more than enough for him to decide I'm too much of a threat.

So what then? What if he is still here when I return? Do I leave him to die? I can't skip town; they will arrest me faster than I can flee. Hiding out at Greta's is also too suspicious. But lying to Schueller was one thing. Nursing the American back to health is an entirely different matter that means my choice is made by default. That I am firmly on the side against the Nazis.

On the other hand the prospect of watching the agonizing process as the infection kills him makes my stomach turn.

 _Eyes glistening with tears and dull with the knowledge that death was inevitable._

I blink, bringing the room back into focus. _No, no, no_.

I can't watch someone die again. I won't. He was right, anyway. The only reason he is here is because Germany started this war. To die here, to be buried in the hole behind my barn with only the pieces of the other soldier to keep him company, would be an unjust end, even if he is the enemy.

Once he is better I will decide. To hand him over now would mean nothing but an execution. He is useless to them in his current state. I am giving him a chance, that's all.

A red flush is creeping up his neck to his cheeks and I worry the inside of my lip. Who am I to help him? I don't know the first thing about what is wrong with him. In his position I would have done what he did – pour on some disinfectant and sew it shut. That obviously is not working.

A strike of hot pain radiates up my arm. There is only one person who can fix my hand and him. The only person I know who has a knowledge of medicine. I have no choice.

His body trembles with a shiver as I move by him. I pause, shoving the cloth strips under the cot as I hover over him. It would be good to know how bad he is before I try to get information. The fingernails of my good hand dig into my palm as I gather my courage.

My brief touch on his forehead tells me how frighteningly hot his skin is. His hair, thick and damp, clings to my fingertips as I snatch my hand back. Part of me expects his eyes to fly open, clear and angry, and his hands to grab me with punishing hardness.

But there is nothing. The cellar is silent and he is still. I don't press my luck and scramble up the ladder into the cool darkness of the main floor.

My freedom should be liberating. The terror of the past hours left me exhausted and bruised so I should feel the abandon of emancipation. But I don't. My body aches and my shoulders droop. Anxiety threads through my veins. There are so many balls in the air, so many issues to delicately balance that I know any mistake I make is going to cause everything to come crashing down. Hide him from the Nazis. Stop him from dying. Control him once he awakes, _if_ he awakes. Prevent myself from being arrested for any of the many laws I am going to break. Now, get to Greta's without getting caught out after curfew. I know I am threads away from cracking. The pain shooting up my arm pounds at my will to continue and _his_ constant presence in the back of my mind fights with my fragile sanity. If today was any indication the voice was just going to get worse. My punishment for everything I am doing. My feet feel heavy as I shuffle towards the door.

Frost bites at my nose and hands as I step outside. I lost my sweater somewhere in my initial struggle with the American. But I don't want to go back in to get my coat. If I reverse my forward momentum I know I am going to lose my nerve and hole up inside with the dying man.

Avoiding the road, I circle around to the wood line that abuts the side of my house. If I cut directly through, I can make it to Greta's house in maybe twenty minutes and avoid anyone else. Pausing before I step into the trees, I turn to look back. Knowing what my house hides makes it feel darker, more foreboding than its size implies. Shivering, I enter the blackness of the forest.

* * *

 _"This is it. This is what I have been striving towards. You are my greatest creation. You will make me proud, won't you?"_

 _"Yes sir."_

 _"It is almost time. Remember, stand up straight and speak loudly and clearly."_

 _"Yes sir."_

 _"Welcome to the Nazi Party."_

* * *

 _Snap._ I freeze, gingerly moving my foot away from the twig. My eyes strain against the dimming light of the setting moon and the forest looms back at me. I hold my breath, waiting for any sign that I've been heard. Ahead of me the woods end and I can see the beginning of a field.

If anyone is watching me they are not giving themselves away yet. I start forward again, forcing my mind to stop ruminating and focus on where I place my feet. A second coat of mud adorns the stockings I made filthy with the water pump and my blouse is now torn from the sharp branches clawing at me. Getting through these uncivilized trees is harder than I thought. My feet ache from the uneven ground and another low-hanging limb smacks against my cheek.

The fence encircling the field is partially collapsed in what looks like some sort of explosion. The ground slopes unevenly into a crater. I don't know if the remains of a person are at the bottom of this one as well and I don't look. The broken boards are marked by rusty, jagged nails and I feel one rip into my calf as I pick my way through the rubble. Swallowing a curse, I clear the mess and skirt around the edge of the open plain. Being out, exposed, is nerve-wracking. My eyes shoot around wildly, trying to see through the darkness. In the distance the peak of Greta's roof appears behind a low hill.

"Hey!"

The word ricochets through the trees from the road, followed shortly by the sound of several pairs of footsteps coming towards me.

Oh no, oh no, oh no. I'm caught. My limbs freeze in place. I'm done for. They will arrest me. The American will die a feverish death in my cellar and I will get a bullet to the back of the head. I can't breathe. My nostrils flare as I try to move air into my numbed chest. A leaf crunches meters from me.

"What?" A different voice responds.

"Josef says chow is almost ready. Let's get this over with."

They aren't talking to me. The relief that fills me brings tears to my eyes. But the footsteps are still coming directly towards me.

 _Move._ The word jolts through my brain and I dive to the earth. The fence is still standing here and I roll towards it, taking cover in its shadow.

The dark outline of a figure looms over me from the other side.

"Fuck, it's cold."

"What the hell are you complaining about? At least you have a coat," the second voice says, a few meters away. I focus on not moving, not as much as blinking. I can hear the breath coming from the man above me.

"I can complain if I want. It's not my fault you lost yours."

The field lights up with the beam of a flashlight. "I didn't fucking lose it. It got blown to bits when the Americans attacked. They won't give me another one."

"So take one. There are plenty around."

"I don't want to fucking peel one off a dead guy. It's bad luck."

The figure above me shifts, leaning further over the fence. I can smell him – mud and wet wool. My heart pounds in my ears. The beam moves again, sweeping within meters of me. Panic finally gets to me and I squeeze my eyes shut to stop myself from watching it inch closer. All he has to do is look down. I want to sink into the ground, to have the dirt swallow me up and hide me forever. Even if it is a grave. It would be better than whatever they plan to do to me if I am caught.

"Fucking Americans. They won't give up. Johann said they are going to attack again."

"Johann doesn't know shit. You saw how many casualties there were. They don't have the men to try again so soon."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure it'll happen soon enough."

There is a click of the flashlight switching off and my eyes fly back open. The figure moves, turning back to the road.

"We should have our reinforcements by then, and we'll defeat them again. They should have stopped at the Rhine. _Deutschland Erwache_."

The man above me grunts in agreement and begins moving back through the trees.

I listen to them crash through the woods to get back to the road. My pulsed slows with every step they take away from me. They haven't seen me. They didn't find me. I'm safe. I'm alive.

The noise stops as they reach the road, but still I wait. I lay there until my limbs became stiff from the cold and the moon begins to set. The silence surrounds me in a reassuring embrace.

The thought of the American finally rouses me to my feet. I need to get back. Another glance around reveals no one and I take off towards Greta's.

The light is on above her porch, drawing me like a beacon. Otherwise the house is dark. I hope she has come home. I hope they haven't kept her at the aid station overnight.

My knocking sounds frantic to my ears.

 _Please be home. Please be home._

An eternity passes before the door finally swings inward, revealing the short, wrinkled woman with a house coat clutched against her chest.

I see that she is in her night gown and her face is pinched. But as her gaze runs over me it melts into surprise.

"Caroline! What on earth are you doing here? It's past curfew!"

With this she grabs my arm to yank me inside. Her face turns to the road to see if I was followed.

My knees buckle as the warm heat of her home caresses my skin. I catch myself on the nearest chair and sink into it as the door slams shut.

Greta circles, her eyes flickering over me. I know what I look like. I look like I've been through hell.

"My word, child. What happened?"

The truth is on the verge of my lips. I want to share this burden; to take away some of the weight before it crushes me. I'm too unqualified, too inexperienced to find my way out of this predicament. Exhaustion shudders through my mind. If anybody can know it is her.

My eyes itch with tears. Now that I made it to her house I don't know what to do. Part of me expected to die before now, whether at the American's hand or the Nazi's. The time to make a decision has arrived before I can prepare.

Something warm is pressed into my hand. A mug of hot water. I drink greedily, hoping it will thaw my insides.

"I'm sorry it is not tea. The store hasn't had any in months."

Manners would insist that I tell her that I don't mind, but I can't bring myself to form words just yet. She hovers over me, her blue eyes worried and tight.

I can't tell her. It wouldn't be fair to include her in this disaster, to threaten her with arrest by association. The fewer people included the fewer lives that are endangered. And the fewer mouths that can talk. I trust Greta with everything. What I do not trust is myself. Loose lips are a slippery slope.

I empty the mug and unsteadily place it on the table. She waits patiently, not looking away.

No, she will remain ignorant for the greater good. I will do this alone. I will have to try to save him by myself.

I meet her gaze. My heart hurts with the pain of betrayal.

"Herr Schueller paid me a visit."

Her eyes widen with surprise. "And he did this to you? Why?"

I swallow, my tongue thick with lies. "I guess some soldier was killed out on the road by my place. He wanted to know if I saw anything."

Surprisingly, she doesn't ask why a dead soldier in the middle of a war is Schueller's concern. Her mouth clucks at me.

"And I guess you ran your mouth off to him again. When are you going to learn?"

I look down at my hands, ashamed at her chiding. "I don't know. I was scared and came here. I think he broke my hand. Can you help?"

She sighs and turns before I can see her face. "Well, he certainly shouldn't be doing that. Come into the kitchen – I keep my supplies in there."

I follow her and settle at the breakfast table while she pulls a small case out of the sideboard.

"Give me your hand." Her tone is gruff. I know I have irritated her by showing up in the middle of the night.

"I'm sorry," I whisper as I proffer by bruised knuckles. Her face softens.

"Don't apologize. I'm glad you came to me." She returns her attention to my hand.

"Herr Schueller gave you this? How? It looks like you punched something."

I try to stop the worry from flitting over my face.

"I-I'm not sure. I was on my knees. He was crushing it in his grip, then he flung it away from him and it hit the ground."

That would cause the injury, wouldn't it? Please believe me.

"Hmmm." The growing panic is cut off as she forcefully moves my fingers. My mind goes blank with pain.

"It's probably not broken then. Schueller isn't that strong. You will need to splint it until the bruising disappears. Do you have a splint?"

I shake my head.

"Then we will need to go to the aid station to get one."

"What if it is, by chance, broken?" Because I am lying. Because I did punch something. The harder-than-granite jaw of an American soldier. Who happens to be comatose in my cellar this very moment.

She raises an eyebrow. "There isn't much to do for a broken hand other than set it and splint it. None of the bones feel out of place, so splinting it regardless is all I can do."

I nod, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Now, what else happened?"

She clucks at me again when I show her my back. This time my story is much closer to the truth.

"The bombing caused a vase to shatter in the sitting room. I was going to clean it up when I slipped and fell. I landed right on the shards."

"You are lucky all you lost was a vase. Most of the village is in pieces," comes a murmur from behind me. Then another sigh.

"There is still porcelain in the wounds and you need stitches. I'm going to have to take you to the aid station tonight."

She comes back around and snaps her case shut. "Let me get dressed and we can go."

"What about the curfew?" I can't have her get in trouble on my behalf.

"Medical workers are exempt," she replies as she puts the basket back into the sideboard.

My mind frantically processes our impending journey, trying to come up with some sort of plan that doesn't end with somebody dead. The aid station was a good idea. Maybe I can glean some sort of information on how to treat the American. Being nosy wouldn't be too suspicious, would it?

I have to hold in my snort. Yes, wouldn't it be lovely for the village pariah to become a busybody in the middle of a war? They offered me medical training when I was released. " _Show us your loyalty. Help the war effort_ ," he said. But I couldn't. I was a coward before my life fell apart and nothing since has bulked up any real bravery in my countenance. So I declined and was exiled to my lonely farmhouse. I couldn't go back now and change my mind. It was too late for second-chances.

But I owed it to the American. I could pretend to be naïve. I had plenty of experience on that front.

My eyes stray to Greta's bookcase in her front parlor. How far will she let me go? How long can I keep being believable?

Renewed adrenaline pumps through my veins as Greta turns to go up the stairs to her bedroom.

"Greta," I call, stalling her progress. As she faces me again, I steel myself to continue my lies.

"I have been thinking about asking to volunteer at the aid station."

If Greta's eyebrows rise any higher they would disappear into her hair.

"Really? You think they would let you?"

I know who she is talking about and I surprise myself by swallowing back an inappropriate bubble of laughter. My exhaustion is making me ridiculous. Yes, they would _love_ it.

"Sure, why not? I want to help."

She doesn't reply and continues to stare at me. A prickle of uneasiness tickles the back of my neck. The silence becomes awkward.

"Do you – do you not think it is a good idea?"

She purses her lips. "Well, the soldiers would appreciate you…helping them, but the doctors and nurses... they all know about your past…"

Of course they do. They would probably spit in my face. She is trying to tell me it was a stupid idea. And I agree. But I need it to get the American help.

I keep my expression ingenuous and tilt my head in feigned confusion.

"Maybe I could read about it first? I'm not even sure if I would be good at it."

My transition isn't the smoothest and for a second disbelief flickers in her eyes. I have been too hasty in directing the conversation towards what I want. I swallow the growing lump in my throat.

"You want to borrow one of my nursing books?"

"If you don't need it," I say quickly, watching her reaction. I half expect an interrogation, even from my closest friend. _Why are you suddenly interested? Why did Schueller think you knew something about the soldier? What are you hiding?_

Finally she blinks and her face relaxes. "Borrow what you want," she calls as she starts up the stairs. "But I don't think you will understand what you read."

I am up and in her parlor before she is finished speaking.

"I know, but I'd like to try," I call back and hear her bedroom door shut.

The shelves are stuffed with books – mainly textbooks and literature. _Mein Kampf_ sits predominately in the middle, its ornate cover contrasting with the dingy paperback I have stashed in a drawer somewhere. It's was given to me after my oath – the only book I'll ever need, according to them.

I know exactly what I'm going for and grab the spine of the heavy text. _Nursing: Skills and Theories._ I have glanced through it before, on a lazy afternoon with Greta before the war became anything other a passing news report. It was a general reference guide. Perfect.

I want to start flipping through it to find its entry on infected wounds, but I hear Greta's footfalls coming back down and snap it shut.

"Ready to go?" Her eyes flicker down to the book and back to my face.

I tuck it under by good arm. "Yes."

She pauses for a moment, looking at me, before turning to the closet behind her. After a moment of rummaging, she faces me again, a canvas bag in her hand.

"Put the book in this and carry it. I don't want you using up your good hand holding the thing."

I murmur my thanks and slide the book into it before hoisting it onto my shoulder. Her kindness swells the guilt laying heavily in my stomach. Greta doesn't respond as she opens the door and we disappear into the darkness.


	8. Chapter 7

**Thank you for the reviews and the support! This is another chapter from Caroline's perspective, but we will be getting back to Joe soon!**

The smell hits me first. It threads through the night, down the road to where Greta and I are silently trekking. The stench of decay and fear fills the air long before I lay my eyes on the hastily constructed tent. I glance nervously at Greta, whose expression remains unreadable.

The aid station has been placed in the middle of a field, its windows darkened with black out curtains. Ambulances are gathered around it, their tires grinding away at the grass. We step off the road onto one of the ruts and make our way closer. As the red cross on the roof emerges in the darkness the dull roar coming from inside becomes louder. I grip the bag tighter as the voices become distinct and I realize what I am walking into.

They weave together, creating a nightmarish chorus that is deafening even at our distance. The rushed orders of doctors and nurses, the pain-laced sobbing of the injured, and the frantic cries of the dying – they hit me like a terrible wave and I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to turn back, to run away from this writhing hell back to my cold silent house and never come out again.

But, I can't. I can't, can't, can't. He will die if I fail now, and that will be another crime on my conscience.

 _Why do you think we are giving you another chance? Have you wondered why you are not dead like the others?_

Greta doesn't say a word, but her face finally conveys what she is feeling. Weary resignation. I don't trust myself to speak and fall behind her, allowing her to forge the way into the chaos waiting inside.

The atmosphere is thick and heavy. It hurts to breathe. Bloody bandages and empty bottles of plasma littered the red-streaked floor. I look to my right and see an unconscious man with a bloody stump where he leg used to be. The soldier to my left is missing his arm. The gauze is black and dripping. Straight ahead a man stares at me silently with one eye. The other is covered, along with the rest of his face, with thick cotton patches. Wailing assaults my ears. I never wanted to be around blood again and now it surrounds me.

"Greta..." I whisper, my voice losing power at the unholy sight before us. Nausea rolls my stomach and the vision of the faceless man tilts. He still says nothing and I realize that he doesn't see me. He doesn't see anything.

I feel Greta's hand on my arm. Her grip is tight. "Come, Caroline."

She weaves us through the cots, maneuvering like a woman well versed in this place. Her head turns as we pass by conscious patients and she exchanges greetings and pleasantries at odds with the bedlam surrounding us. The men know her. She has saved their lives. She is a saint to them.

I gnaw on my bottom lip as their eyes turn towards me. They stare at me with the blank looks of strangers.

I know that I can't let the American die. And I know that these men would execute me as soon as the word is uttered from their commanders' lips. But guilt nibbles at the edge of my thoughts. Maybe if I had tried to be like Greta, had tried to help them I would have found the patriotism they tried so hard to instill in me, or the acceptance I craved. I could be here now, nursing them back to health and doing my part like a true believer. I would be welcomed into the fold. The idea of it is so appealing that I look to Greta, the words almost to my lips. The words that would seal his fate.

I may break a few rules in trying to stop the infection from killing the American, but I can still redeem myself in their eyes. I can end it all. They won't like what I've done – the lying, the stealing – but surely they will realize the significance of someone like me handing over an American. Then maybe people will stop suspiciously glancing at me the way they do – furtively, under their eyelashes – and instead look at with me with the warmth and admiration these men bestow upon Greta. And it would be so wonderful. Then my loneliness would end, becoming just a brief, dark moment I can think about in the years to come with nothing more than passing interest.

 _That's a good girl._

It is what they want and that makes me shudder. It would be so cruel. I think of him, lying defenselessly on the cot. Like these men he is also hanging on by a thread, waiting for a miracle as his insides drain onto the floor. He had been mercilessly methodical thus far in patching himself up and making my home a refuge. He did so without pausing to think, to show how deeply uncertain and afraid he must be. Is my need for validation worth more than his safety? His life?

Do I really believe they won't eventually execute him, even if I turn him in healthy and healed?

"Greta." A deep voice cuts into my thoughts. The village doctor stands before us, his clothes splattered with red. "I thought we sent you home to rest. What are you doing here?" He gaze flickers to me as he talks, then returns as he realizes who I am. If feel myself shrink behind Greta. Everyone in this village dislikes me, but the doctor's feelings steer more towards hatred. He was my first visitor after I was moved into my house and still had no idea what my place was in this world. That place quickly became clear as he stood on my porch that day, his face expression full of scorn. I wasn't welcome, and I shouldn't come to him, no matter how sick. I was on my own.

"You," he spits, forgetting Greta. "Get out."

I almost turn to hightail it when Greta cuts in. "She is with me. I need to see to some of her injuries." Her voice is firm and her grip remains steady on my arm.

"We don't have anything to spare," is the reply, his eyes not leaving me.

"You know we do. All she needs is some stitches and a splint. I will treat her myself and it will only take a few moments."

There is a long silence. My face flushes in embarrassment. Most of the patients around us are listening, eyeing me accusingly. I pray the doctor doesn't decide to denounce my crimes in front of everyone. These soldiers didn't come from here and I am nothing to them. Anything otherwise is dangerous. The orders not to kill me are known to men like Schueller, but not so much to a random Private from Munich and no one will stop them from hunting me down if they decide real justice needs to be served

Finally the doctor moves his focus to Greta. "Get it done quickly. I'm sure the command staff do not want her hanging around the soldiers."

With a final glare in my direction he turns to focus on the patient nearest us. Greta wastes no time in dragging me to the back of the crowded room, where a lone, empty cot is waiting. Its mat is covered in dark, wet stains. Wordlessly she motions for me to sit before disappearing behind a flap into some sort of closet.

I gingerly sit on the soiled cot. Dampness instantly soaks the back of my skirt and the odor of rotting meat edges past my nose. Swallowing, I purse my lips to keep from gagging and find a dry spot on the floor to lay Greta's bag. I need to keep a straight face in here. Panicking and vomiting will get me kicked out and I will be right back where I started. I already lost it with the soldier the American nearly decapitated on the road and that cannot happen again. My plan hinges on my self-control.

The soldiers in the cots around mine do not look at me, each wrapped up in their own misery. A deep gurgling nose slices through the commotion and the one directly in front of me struggles to breathe, bubbles of blood blooming at his mouth.

Greta reappears just in time and I rip my eyes from the man to watch her. She carries a thread kit and splint, as well as a glass bottle of disinfectant and tweezers. The contents of her hands confirms my suspicion that the supply stores were behind that flap.

She moves swiftly upon reaching me, keeping her promise to the doctor to get me out of here as soon as possible. Yanking my blouse over my head, she pulls down the back of my slip to expose the porcelain shards embedded in my skin. Nervousness jolts through me and I clutch my shirt to my chest with my good hand, but no one around us spares me a second glance. The gurgling man is silent now, blankly staring up at the ceiling.

I immediately feel my skin being jerked as she plucks the broken vase from my back, setting each piece a nearby tin with a tiny _plunk_. I stay silent, letting her do her work. Farther down the line of cots a man cries out in agony.

The pulling stops and her hand appears in my peripheral to grab the antiseptic. A second later the wetness pours down my back, soaking my slip around my hips. The gashes burn and an involuntary hiss escapes my mouth. The hand moves by again to grab the needle and thread.

"We are running low on morphine, so I can't give you any. You only have a couple of lacerations that are deep enough so it will just be a few stiches, but this will hurt."

I wordlessly nod and close my eyes. The warmth of her hands touches my skin briefly before I register a sharp, stabbing pain. Then another stab and the feeling of tugging as the guides the thread through. Nausea makes me dizzy. I try to focus on my still throbbing wrist, distracting myself from the thought of her sewing me back together.

How the American did this to himself without blinking I'll never know. The picture of him, gray and cold with death, flashes across my closed eyelids. My fingernails dig into the blouse.

"There. I'm done. You did very well, Caroline."

I can't bring myself to speak and nod without turning my head.

She moves my blouse away without ceremony and begins wrapping my torso with gauze. I try not to think about my nakedness and stare at the tent flap hiding the supplies. No one has come in or out in several minutes. It has to be empty back there.

Greta pulls my slip back up and helps me back into my blouse. The skin between my shoulder blades is tight and sore and it hurts to move.

Moving in front of me, she grasps my wrist. There isn't much for her to do but set it for the splint. Her eyes briefly flicker to me with an apologetic expression before she flattens my knuckles against the base of the splint. Instantly the sight of the room disappears in flashes of white. I don't know if I make any noise, but when my vision slowly comes back a few of the nurses are looking at us.

I suck in a deep breath and Greta ties strips of cloth around the base and my hand, holding is immobile. She looks up at me and I realize that my eyes have teared up. I blink to clear them, not wanting her to see me cry.

"You will need to change the bandages on your back daily and let me know if the pain gets worse or you have any discharge that isn't clear."

This my chance. Get yourself together, Caroline.

"What do you mean? What should I look for?" My voice shakes slightly.

"Clear discharge is part of the healing process. Yellow, green, or red is a sign of infection."

"What happens if I get it infected?"

"Then we will need to get you some penicillin or you are going to get very sick, so you need to let me know right away."

She gives me the information I need so easily my mind goes blank with my next question.

"I'll take the stitches out in a week, then you will need to keep the wounds covered until they have a hard scab."

I nod, trying to memorize every word.

"Keep your hand in the splint for the next few days, until the pain subsides. Then take it off for a few minutes each night and work on bending your knuckles and wrist. You can remove it completely when you can make a fist with no pain. If it doesn't progress let me know."

I want to bring the conversation back to wound care. The American's side is already infected; how do I ask what else I need to do?

A scream echoes from across the tent and I see several nurses rushing to a cot. One of them turns towards us.

"Greta! We need your help over here!"

She hurries to her feet and looks down at me. "The curfew has been lifted. Do you think you can make it home by yourself?"

I look towards the outside and am surprised to see dawn quickly lighting the sky. Has only been hours since I found the soldier in the road?

"Can I grab some extra bandages?" I ask quickly, hoping that the commotion across the room will distract her from thinking too hard about my request. I need to get into that closet alone.

Her eyes jump from me to the doctor, who is bent over the thrashing patient. "Yes, just be quick about it. I won't be able to help you if he finds you in there." She points to the closet.

I nod and reach to grab the bag, stiffening as a ripple of pain emerges from the stitches. I want to thank Greta, but she is gone when I straighten again and I see her small figure disappear into the mass of people gathered around the now still soldier.

I can't waste any time. I dart to the door flap, my feet sliding on the damp floor. No one pays me any attention and I peer into the storeroom. It is empty.

My right hand is completely useless. I thread the splint through the straps of the bag and hook it on my elbow.

A dizzying array of boxes and drawers stare back at me, most labeled with foreign terms.

"Come on, come on," I feel myself whisper, my eyes flying over the labels.

 _Gauze/Bandages_

I reach in and grab handfuls of the material, filling the bottom of the bag. Next to it is a bin named _Suture Kits_. They look like what Greta used to sew up my back. Two of those will work. Maybe three.

Penicillin is next. Then syringes. I've seen pictures of those in the newspaper. They will be needed for the penicillin. Two bottles of antiseptic.

That's all I know. The bag is getting full and I start grabbing random items in the off chance there is something else I need. A jar of plasma. A scalpel. Some locking scissor-looking things. A roll of tape.

I pause at the morphine. Greta said they didn't have enough. But I knew that whatever I needed to do to the American was painful and it would be impossible to tell if he was deep enough into his coma to feel anything. I can't have him screaming or fighting me.

I take one syrette.

The sound of voices filters through the door. Time to get going. I turn to leave when a bundle of fabric catches my eye. Clothes – white buttoned shirts and cheap wool trousers. They are stacked in folded piles. Maybe for the patients to wear after their uniforms are cut off? I grab a set. There are no sizes.

I look down at the bag, now filled to the brim. All of it stolen.

The air is still oppressive when I step out of the closet. The nurses have dispersed and the screaming patient is gone. His cot is soaked with blood.

The bag hugs my side and tuck it into me with my good arm. One foot in front of the other. The walk to the entrance is endless. I pass by cot after cot, nurse after nurse, waiting to be discovered. For a hand to stop me and rip the bag from my shoulder.

 _Traitor._

The word hisses around my brain.

 _Please don't do this._

Grass crunches under my feet and I am outside in one piece. The anxiety retreats back to the inner recesses of my mind but I don't stop, hurrying back to the road and away from the misery behind me. Away from the temptation to throw it all away and admit to everything. To join the evil, however welcoming I imagine it to be.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I reach the gravel. I throw a glance back at the tent, but there is no one.

Picking up my pace I break for my home, hoping a dead man doesn't greet me.

* * *

The fingers of the rising sun dance over the house, revealing nothing. It hasn't changed. The front door hasn't been left open by the American making a break for it. It isn't torn apart by Schueller's searches. He is still in there.

I catch my breath as I open the gate. Aching winds up my legs. My back burns and my hand throbs. Every minute of last night is catching up to me and I stumble up the steps.

I still as the door swings open, but nothing has changed. The air is quiet and the smears of dust still show the signs of our fight during the night.

Numbness sweeps through me as I make my way to the cellar door. Preparing me for what I may find.

Thick and sour. The air in the cellar is just like the aid station. My hand trembles as I grab the ladder and haul myself down. The bag bangs against my side and my splinted hand hangs against my chest. Behind me it is too quiet. I am too late. He is dead. I know it.

My heels clack as I meet the rough stone floor. It is now or never. My palm digs into the last ladder rung. I have to look at him. I have to see.

Suddenly, through the stillness, a faint noise rises to greet me. The soft scraping of breath. I whip around, the pull of the stitches forgotten.

There he is, laying like I had left him, his chest slowly rising and falling. His skin is even paler and damp with sweat, but he is alive. I swallow and hold the bag to me as I shuffle closer.

The discharge from his side is sickly red and yellow. It leaks across his skin, soaking the mattress. What Greta told me confirms what I already know – it is infected.

I dump the bag next the cot and he doesn't move, his eyes still under his eyelids. Underneath the mess of medical supplies is Greta's book. I crouch down to balance it in my lap with my good hand. The loose strands of my hair brush against the frame of the cot and with a jolt I realize how close I am to him. How close I have allowed myself to be to him. If he awakes he could wrap his hands around my throat without needing to so much as turn his head. And I don't think he would hesitate in doing so.

I shift just out of his reach.

Greta is right – the book is beyond my scope of knowledge. In between mentions of "hematomas" and "bionic agents" it is a mixture of foreign phrases and incomprehensible drawings. God, what if this was all for nothing? I don't know how to use the supplies I've stolen and that means if I can't figure this out there is nothing to do but watch death creep from the shadows and drag him away.

My fingertips are white as they grip the pages. My hand pulses with pain. I look at the soldier, who despite his unconsciousness appears as frustrated as I am. A crease has formed between his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth are pulled down.

I flip to the index. The words are almost a blur as I scan, looking for anything remotely helpful.

 _Laceration/Skin Injury_

Bingo.


	9. Chapter 8

He knew this wasn't real. He knew it. A vague notion told him it wasn't, that he was no longer connected to reality and what flashed before him was a fever dream. But his side had stopped hurting. That was the good news. Even though the heat stayed with him, making him damp with perspiration, the pain finally left and he was pretty sure that meant he was dying.

And he was okay with that. There had been a moment, almost a year ago now, when the prospect of death made him wonder if he had made the right decision the day he signed his enlistment papers. That he had done the noble thing instead of the suicidal one. It was in the plane, somewhere over France, when the darkness surrounding him was torn with explosions and the bangs of shrapnel were the only sounds to be heard. He ripped the skin of his palms on his Star of David as he gripped it in what he was sure to be his last prayer. He wondered if his ultimate demise would be painful and if anyone back in the States would miss him.

Now he had his answers. It didn't hurt. And no one would miss him. The visions that came across him now – the final review of his existence before he turned into dust – were not ones to make him mourn what he was losing.

There was his father, drunk and red faced, screaming in German at his mother in the tiny kitchen of their Brooklyn apartment. They were arguing again about his father's perpetual unemployment. An inevitable sharp slam of the front door left the heavy silence punctuated by the soft sobs of his mother. He, young and unsure, shuffled around fruitlessly, not equipped to offer her comfort. Watching his vain attempts to console her were painful and he felt just as useless now as then.

His father would be gone one, maybe two, days until the money fueling his bender ran out. And then the cycle would start again.

There was a blur and then he saw his mother, permanent exhaustion lining her face, trudging home from the diner. Her smile towards him was warm and sweet like he remembered. Like clockwork, she fixed him dinner and sat at their little table, counting her tips before dividing them into envelopes to pay the bills. As soon as the last envelope was sealed she headed to the couch and he watched her face relax with sleep, the markers of worry softening. But the nap was always too short and when she opened her eyes after only a couple of hours it was with well-practiced resignation. Then she was gone again, this time to the typing pool at a law firm.

Her time at home was brief and he yearned for every second to be longer than the last. He followed her around, helping count the money or curling up against her side as she slept. Then she would leave and he would be left behind, alone and bereft.

He didn't want to watch his father rip into the envelopes, stuffing the money into his pockets for his afternoon at the bar. But the visions didn't care and he was forced to watch anyway. Just like he was forced to relive that awful afternoon, when his disordered but familiar life shattered completely and any chance he had at being normal ended surely and brutally.

He and Mother were counting money together as usual. He heard a deep sigh emerge from her and couldn't look away as she closed her eyes and slumped on the table, not concerned that she was demolishing his neat piles of coins. The touch of her skin was just as cold this time and his panic was just as terrifying.

His mother had been the only good thing about his world. Her passing was sudden and unexpected and he was left unmoored in an environment that was increasingly hostile towards him, a kid too small for his age and too quiet to make any friends.

The visions moved on and then he was at school and was once more the lonely, scrawny Jewish kid with a weird accent. The other boys preyed on him. Simple things like going to the restroom was an exercise in caution. He had to poke his head in first, making sure it was empty, then do his business as fast as he could before they could come in and trap him. The familiar smell of antiseptic filled his nose and the face of an eight-year-old boy, pale with wide eyes, looked back at him from the mirror.

There was no escaping their attention on the walk home. Every day was a race – him against his pursuers. Sometime he won and sometimes he didn't. One time, when he was ten, he lost and he lost badly. His father was already home when he limped in, bloody and bruised. His father's bleary gazed sized Joe up, then he snorted derisively.

 _"You're pathetic."_ The alcoholic slur was bright and clear as if his father was really with him in the afterworld. There was no response he could conjure and he instead went to wash himself off. His tears were buried in the wet washcloth. Afterwards, with his father's words seeping into him, he inspected his blackened face and red eyes. In that moment he promised himself that this was the last time he would cry. He had kept that promise, but a sharp pain broke through Joe's chest at the sight of his desolate younger self. He never cried again, but the damage was done.

The persecution didn't stop when he entered high school. It wasn't until time and puberty filled out his height and stature that the chase become more than a one-sided game. The visions brought him to that fateful day when one of them trapped him in the locker room after gym, intent on getting a share of his blood. He was backed against the wall, preparing himself for the inevitable blow, when the revelation hit. A rush went through him as the thoughts crystalized into stark reality. He no longer had to be afraid. Yes, his immediate future currently included being on the receiving end of a fist, but he knew what that felt like. It couldn't be any worse than what had happened in the past. He didn't need to be affected by it.

 _At all_.

And he could see the top of this kid's head. _He was bigger_.

The feel of his former tormentor's nose breaking against his knuckles was just as satisfying this second time around. He didn't remember the lecture he got from the coach who pulled him off the other boy. It was the elation, _the power_ , of no longer being beholden to those who wanted to make him miserable that consumed his thoughts.

Being as tall as he was, he immediately outclassed most of the group who targeted him. As for the rest – they learned quickly what a man who had nothing to lose, who didn't care if he was expelled or arrested, was capable of. Rumors swirled and he felt the stares on him as he walked in the halls. His reputation was just as notorious, but now people spoke in tones of fear instead of derision. And that was good. Fear meant he was left alone. It meant he didn't need to bother with thinking anything at all about anyone else. A slow freeze crept through his insides, hardening him against the repudiation from his peers. During his last two years of school he finally found the peace that he had been craving all along.

The day after graduation found him at the recruitment station, signing his life away. The bright smile and warm handshake the recruiter offered him were the first offerings of kindness he had experienced in years and he knew then that this was his chance to break free from the suffocating life trapping him in Brooklyn. There were no goodbyes to make him linger. His father scraped by on working in the CWA, but anything not spent on rent went into the bottle. He took the next train to Georgia.

By now the coldness was part of him, entwined into his very being. It served him well in training. Sobel's taunts and insults harmlessly bounced off of him. They could hardly compete with what was yelled at him in his younger days. He watched recruit after recruit break down under the heated berating from their commanding officer. Like fuel to the fire, their frailty made Sobel even worse. To make Easy the finest company of the regiment, the weakest members needed to be culled quickly and harshly. In the beginning, he got his fair share. Sobel orbited around him, asking if his Austrian surname meant he was a traitor, if his long build was strong enough to get him up Currahee, if his lack of reaction meant he was slow and dumb.

None of it came close to making him feel anything but the steady, flat baseline of emotion that constantly coursed through him. He knew this aggravated Sobel, who became more and more aggressive as training wore on. He always got latrine duty. His weekend pass was always revoked. Things unavoidably came to a head halfway through a night march at Toccoa. Muck – still recovering from a twisted ankle – fell behind on mile ten. He fell back too, both to help Muck keep moving and share the burden of the inevitable reprimand from their commanding officer. Sobel's mood was already extra shitty that day and when he descended on them the screaming started immediately. He saw Muck pale and whisper in his ear. He couldn't hear over the yelling, but his memory supplied the words.

 _"I got this, Joe. Go back to the formation."_

He watched himself shake his head slightly and set his jaw. They continued on, ignoring the insults hurled their way.

 _"You two are going to get the rest of the unit killed if you don't pick up the pace."_

 _"Do you think the Germans will care that your feet hurt, Muck?"_

 _"Just quit already. I never wanted you in my company. People like you aren't meant to be paratroopers. Why don't you go train to be a clerk at Regiment? You can handle a typewriter, can't you?_

It got worse as they didn't respond.

 _"Isn't that sweet? The Kraut helping the cripple."_

 _"What's your girlfriend's name? Faye? Do you really think she's waiting for you? I bet some other soldier is treating her real nice right now. You know what I mean. Have you gotten your Dear John letter yet?"_

Joe saw Muck swallow and blink. At the time he could feel Muck's arm tighten as it lay behind his neck. The man wanted to throw a punch, he knew. But to Muck's credit they continued on, their steady pace not slowing.

Sobel continued to watch them, his face reddening as he realized that they were not going to take the bait. A vein popped out on the side of his forehead and his eyes darkened. Joe watched, realizing from this perspective how demented Sobel was and how frighteningly close he came to getting them all killed in battle.

As Joe and Muck labored on Sobel reached out and snatched Joe's collar, yanking him away. Muck stumbled but managed to stay on his feet. Sobel pulled Joe close.

 _"I'm going to make both of you repeat all twelve miles. Tonight. And you will not help one other. If I see you as so much acknowledge each other, you will repeat it again."_

It was his trademark mercilessness. Muck could barely stand as it was. _"Sir,"_ he tried, _"Private Muck need to go to the medical tent-"_

 _"Denied."_ Joe bit his tongue.

Then Muck made an attempt, the pain evident in his voice. _"Sir, I don't want to miss jump training next week because of my ankle. May I be allowed to repeat the march tomorrow night?"_

Sobel was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his words were smug.

 _"Private Muck, you may see yourself to the medical tent. Private Leibgott will complete your twelve miles in addition to his own. Private Leibgott, I expect you to be back for morning PT at 0700."_

The punishment was just as atrocious now as it was then. He saw Muck cast a disbelieving glance at their commander.

Joe was beyond irritated. He knew Sobel was doing this to get at him, to punish him for not responding to his taunts like everyone else in the unit. He sent Sobel more than a glance. His stare, as cold as ever and full of dark, unspoken thoughts, rested on the officer and didn't move. It was the most he could do without getting court martialed. Sobel's eyes met his own,

At the time it felt like an eternity before Sobel finally looked away, but now Joe could see it wasn't more than a few seconds. But whatever he saw in Joe's eyes clearly got the message across, because his voice was softer, missing the self-satisfaction, when he told them to fall out. He then disappeared without a word, running to catch up to the unit.

Joe did all twenty four miles alone, dragging himself back to the assembly area just as morning PT was starting. Sobel didn't acknowledge him, nor did he focus his wrath on Joe again after that night. What had happened between them was enough to earn Joe a modicum of peace. Sure there was still the occasional lost pass for a piece of lint on his uniform or an invisible speck of rust on his bayonet, but Sobel never singled him out again.

The visions continued and he saw himself running up Currahee for the millionth time. The humidity was so thick it felt like he was swimming. Roe was on one side of him and Bull was on the other. If anything during this time made him thaw, made him feel human, it was the other guys in the company. No one here knew his past and he had long since smoothed out his accent so no one knew he spoke German unless he told them. For the first time he was just another guy, sweating and panting up Currahee with the rest of them. Their offers of friendship were foreign and wonderful.

If there was anyone he would regret never seeing again, it was them.

* * *

The training didn't faze him. The newsreels of the fighting on the front didn't make him blink. It wasn't until he was on that goddamn plane that cracks finally made their way through the stone that centered him. As they bounced and rattled through the air he thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest. He knew he wasn't alone. Everyone was a breath away from full blown panic. But the terror that filled his veins made him feel like he was just a runt again, hiding in trash cans and dodging his tormentors, only to be found and beaten to a pulp. He didn't know he could still feel this way. He didn't realize that tortured little boy was still there, waiting to surface at the worst possible time.

When the call came to hook up Bull had to forcibly pull him to his feet. It wasn't that he hoped to be left behind, no. It was the suddenness with which the ice disappeared and the strength of the torrential flood of anxiety that paralyzed him. Pain he could deal with. The very real and likely possibility of death – the same death now meeting other soldiers in other planes– made him nauseous and lightheaded. Just like the boys at school randomly picking him to be their punching bag, it seemed to choose its targets with the same dread-inducing unpredictability and for split second he wasn't sure he could handle it. Even now, as he watched this with the knowledge that he would survive, he felt a prickle of unease as the plane lurched, almost throwing everyone off their feet.

He saw himself, his eyes glazed over, automatically doing his checks on the gear of the man in front of him. The entire cabin lit with a flash and the plane next to them fell to the ground below in pieces. Then the light glowed green and they were hurtling out into the atmosphere, where the anti-aircraft fire made it as bright as day. He tried to control his breathing, to stop himself from hyperventilating. A man, his clothes on fire, hurtled past, screaming all the way to the ground.

Joe knew what happened next. But to see it, to watch the emotions cross his face, made him feel like a witness to someone else's awakening rather than his own. He jumped from the plane as a regressed little boy, scared out his wits. Watching that burning man through his agonizing fall to an inevitable demise, screaming as though anything could be changed or that he could be saved, Joe realized what every single man in his company came to learn eventually. At the time he didn't have the words to describe it and could barely understand it himself. It wasn't until a couple weeks later, as he was in some muddy hole outside of Carentan, when a voice drifted over to him and told him, like the whisper of a ghost, exactly what had materialized.

 _"…the only hope you have is to accept the fact that you're already dead, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you'll be able to function as a soldier's supposed to function. Without mercy, without compassion, without remorse. All war depends on it."_

What those words crystallized he could feel come over him as he landed in some field far from the drop zone. His hands trembled as he ripped off his parachute, but by the time he pulled his rifle from its case they were still and sure. He could sense himself returning to the stoic man he knew. If he was dead, he was dead. There was nothing he could do to dodge a bullet if his name was on it. He didn't lose control as he made his way towards Sainte-Mère-Église and the rallying point, even as he navigated alone through a countryside filled with the enemy, the hulks of crashed, burning planes, and the bodies of men who lost the fatal roulette.

The ice returned, he thought, guiding him and keeping him sane as always.

He was sure he was back to normal. Mostly sure. After all, he had never been in battle before. He didn't expect to nearly lose it in the plane; who knew what would happen when he came face to face with the Germans trying to kill him.

That test was going to come sooner or later and, sure enough, he found out quickly what type of soldier he was. On a warm afternoon at Brécourt Manor, he felt the air come alive with flying bullets. Could hear them dig into the ground around him, missing him by inches. He saw himself blink once, then raise his rifle. The barrel didn't waiver and his finger was strong on the trigger. The German in his sights turned at the last second and saw what was coming. He went down without saying a word, going limp as Joe's bullet passed through him.

Joe didn't recoil. He didn't consider that he had taken his first human life. Instead he turned and aimed at his next target. And the next. And the next. There was no more doubt. He was Joseph Leibgott - cold, unflappable, and out for blood.


	10. Chapter 9

**Thank you for the reviews everyone, especially emilywd and BobtheFrog! You guys are so nice! I really appreciate the feedback.**

The floor is hard and unforgiving. My tailbone wants me to move, to shift to a more comfortable position. But I can do nothing but sit, my knees drawn in front of me to rest by aching hand. I stare at the splint, marking the stains of fresh blood. Exhaustion slows my breathing, slows my heartbeat, until I am nothing but a creature trying to continue to exist. My eyelids slide closed and I force them back open, willing my vision to clear of the threatening fog.

I smell. Of bodily fluids, of sweat, of panic. The day is wrapped around me in a malicious odor that permeates the room, soaking me and him in a toxic stew filled with the labors of the past hours. The light is dimming through the cellar opening; the day has slipped by and I have yet to sleep. I should move. I should go light the lamp and close the door. My bottom hurts. But the will to make my muscles work is lost in the haze of fatigue.

My throat is dry and my tongue is thick. I tell myself to swallow but I don't. I look past the splint to the soldier, my pupils resisting the shift. The tall form on the cot slowly comes into focus. He is well. He is alive.

Evidence of the day is scattered around him. The book with its pages dog eared and stained. Puddles of reddish water from the draining and flushing of the wound. A bucket with pieces of him I had to cut off, pieces from inside his skin that were swollen with infection. Empty bottles of antiseptic and torn gauze.

Joseph is his name. Joseph Leibgott. So says his dog tags. Now we are even. He knows my name and I his. At least when I meet my inevitable demise I'll be able to put a name to the man I tried to save.

My eyelids slide shut again. It is hard to force them back open.

I'll help him. I'll save his life. That much is sure now. My debate, my far-fetched internal battle over my obligations versus my conscience, was merely a distraction. A faint idea that I still have some control over this, over myself, over my fate. I have known this all along, but I was too much of a coward to tell myself the truth. But now, with weariness making the effort to shield my psyche from this existential nightmare too much to overcome, the full weight of my new reality is baldly staring me in the face.

I was a fool from the very beginning. As soon as I realized that he was not a Nazi here to put an end to my feeble existence I thought I had sway with him. I thought that keeping his secret would entitle me to demand something from him. It was respect at the time. Maybe compassion too.

And in one fell swoop I was put back in my place. Nothing more than a mark carved into the wood of his gun. The span of my life narrowed down to one scratch almost too small for the eye to see. That scared me, but still I persisted. _I'll wait until he recovers. Then I will decide._ It was pure delusion, made evident when I found myself splattered in blood, knuckle deep inside another human. Is this what still having a choice looked like? Did I still think that free will was mine to exercise?

I am a pawn, just like with the Nazis. Someone who is kept around until they lose their usefulness. And as he regains his strength my usefulness will end. And when the Nazis find out that the years of torment they inflicted on me were for naught I will be worth less than nothing to them. So what I do between now and then is meaningless. Turning him in was never my choice to make and my destiny was never in my control.

The world goes black and I realize I've shut my eyes again. A giggle of hysterical laughter bubbles up from an unsettled place in my gut. This is madness. I am madness. I'm losing my mind.

A sharp stab shoots through my back and I still again. The pain from the stitches dances along the edges of my consciousness. I am too tired to comprehend it. When my vision returns I can barely focus enough to see his fuzzy outline.

This soldier's decisions have set into motion an unavoidable end for me. What will be the cumulative sum of my life? The blemished story of a girl born in the wrong time, in the wrong place, to the wrong people? A cautionary tale of the abyss pulled deep from the darkest corners of the human mind and made real in murder and betrayal? I realize now that in helping him survive, regardless of what he does to me in the end, is my only chance to find forgiveness before my time comes. Forgiveness for everything. How I enter the afterlife – full of shame, guilt, and regret or with a small beacon of hope that I might be saved – has narrowed down to this. And him. The last vestiges of my self-determination linger in the space between us, showing me the only path I can take into the dot marking the end of my timeline.

And in all likelihood he will never thank me, and will never know how this event – these last twenty four hours – have changed the course of my life irrevocably.

I shouldn't expect gratitude. I have no doubt that the likelihood of him killing me, to keep himself safe and me silent, is still probable enough that I dread when he awakes. I realize the truth in his proclamation that the fault for his entire situation is lain at Germany's feet. He has no reason to treat me with anything but distrust and scorn. We are using each other, whether for survival or redemption – it doesn't matter. He doesn't care what I need to do with my last days or my selfish desire to reclaim the moral high ground in the face of my own past and silence the tortuous voices in my head.

But regardless in the end I know I will meet my grave. Joseph Leibgott will heal and fight his way back to his countrymen, never thinking of me as more than an enemy he bullied into helping him despite her inherently evil nature. If the he leaves me alive the SS will come for me and load me onto their truck and no one will ever see me again.

There is nothing I can do to change this.

Blackness again. It is comforting. It is welcome.

* * *

 _"You must be silent Caroline. You mustn't tell anyone."_

 _Her eyes meet mine. I don't know what is going on. I don't know what to say. Her face, serious and urgent, is foreign. I want the face I know back, the one of smiles and kisses._

 _"It will be very bad if anyone finds out. Please understand."_

 _I nod and she relaxes, her fingers buttoning my coat. "Just act normal. That is all you have to do. Pretend like nothing is happening. You can do that can't you?"_

 _I nod again because it seems to make her happy. She smiles, but it doesn't look right. It is too deep, too wide. A hat is pulled over my hair and she ties it below my chin._

 _The door holds back a bitter wind that bites into my cheeks as soon as it is opened._

 _"Have a good day at school and remember," she places a finger on my lips, sealing them from spilling our secrets. Secrets too large for a child to understand._

* * *

 _"I don't have to be home until dinner. Can I come in?" He fiddles with the strap holding my books, not meeting my eyes. He cheeks are pink, either from the cold or his awkwardness. I look to my door. It is silent and locked._

 _"I'm not allowed to have anyone over," I mutter into my scarf, not looking at him either. "I'm sorry."_

 _He shrugs but he is disappointed. I take my books from him. "See you tomorrow?"_

 _"Yeah," he looks like he wants to say something else, but then turns away. "Bye," he calls over his shoulder._

 _"Bye," I answer, watching him disappear in the falling snow._

* * *

A shiver wakes me up and for a moment I still see the fading silhouette in the cold. I shake my head and the image dissolves. My neck is tight. My legs are cramped. Darkness greets my vision. My fingers stretch, reaching for the matches on the stove. When I feel the coarse cardboard box I pull it to me. The stones of the floor are rough enough for me to light a match with one hand. I toss it into the stove where the kindling immediately lights.

The orange glow shows Joseph. He has moved. His arms where at his sides when I left him but now they curl around his torso, hugging himself. He isn't awake, but his breathing is steady in the quiet.

How long have I been asleep? The darkness coming down the ladder from above tells me nothing. I stumble to my feet. My head feels groggy and my hair, sticky and dirty, falls into my eyes. I push it back and go to the shelves. In a house full of things left behind, of items belonging to another person in another life, I have four I call my own. At the end of the bottom shelf they lay grouped together, not immune from the ever-present dust.

My comb, wooden with an ivory overlay, was a present on my eighth birthday. A watch, cheap as it may be, that was purchased with the pocket money I made from running errands for our old neighbors. A jeweled pin that had belonged to my mother.

The last item, _Mein Kampf_ , stays upstairs.

I grab my watch. It is just before dawn. I've been asleep almost eleven hours on the floor and as I stretch I feel every second in the knotted muscles of my back and legs. The stitches are tight, but the stinging pain is gone. My hand, although it aches in the splint, feels better too.

When I turn my eyes naturally fall to the soldier. Like it or not, he is now the center of my existence, the magnetic pull that will keep me tethered to this room. The abandon of exhaustion last night made clear what is obvious. A new day has changed nothing and my place, wedged between him here and the Nazis out fighting the war, is where I need to be. Where I have to be if I am to have any hope that my next life will be better than this one.

He looks better. The red splotches marking his skin have faded and his limbs have lost the tremble of a man fighting death. Failure was sickening close yesterday, turning me into a desperate woman as told by the unorganized mess around the cot. The book said to remove infected tissue and I took the scalpel to the swollen, purple pockets inside the gash. He bled so much. A trail of it, dried and flaking, marks the line between him and the waste bucket. Plasma, I read, was needed to keep his blood pressure up. I remember my shaking hands stabbing his inner elbow with the IV needle attached to the plasma bottle. I must have hit a vein because the jar drained and his arm didn't swell. It was the same with the penicillin.

Working on him, being within centimeters of him, being _inside_ him, meant that his close proximity is no longer something I could avoid. His ability, such as it was, to do me any damage is impaired by the coma holding him still and unconscious. I had done many things, many painful things, to him yesterday and not even a sigh escaped him.

So for once I move with confidence, taking hold of his arms and moving them away from the bandages encircling his middle. He hadn't bled through. Gauze, soaked in antiseptic, was stuffed into the opening in him. I will need to change it. I wanted to sew him up immediately, to close the unnaturalness marking him, but the book says to leave it open a few days, until the healing starts.

My gaze drifts upwards to his face. Before now it had been marred by shadows in the darkness, the paleness of blood loss, or the heat of fever. Now in the glow of the stove I see him as I think he looks, when war and injury aren't pulling at the edges of his mind.

His skin is darker on his face than that of his chest, marked by the months spent outdoors in the sun. I wonder how long he has been in Europe. From the beginning, with the British in Africa? The invasion of Normandy? He is not new to battle. That much is told by the down-turned line of his mouth and the weariness that clings to him even in sleep. A scar, pink but fresh, tears across the side of his neck. Any deeper and it would have killed him, just like the one on his side. I don't know anything about him, but his body tells of man who has been blessed with the luck of dodging death at least twice.

I pull away from him and look again at the mess. Now that he is stable and the danger has passed there is nothing but the mundane to take care of.

The sun is rising as I begin my chores. It feels odd now, to be sweeping and mopping when he lies below, not two days ago terrorizing me into submission. I clean away our marks in the dust and the broken vase. As I near the front window I look to the road. The blood from the German has dried away and the gravel looks the same as always. Schueller hasn't been back – a small mercy.

As the sun climbs higher I head down the ladder and start on the stinking, filthy cellar. The cleaning is cathartic. The rhythm of the sweeps of the mop or broom, the accomplishment of a tidied room – all of it dulls my mind, slowing the worn wheel of worry and memory. Even _his_ voice is silent and only the even sounds of Joseph's breathing serve as a lulling background.

I am done by midday and I lug the trash to the burning pit behind my house. I will need to get rid of it sooner than later. A nosy person will want to know what a single woman has to do with yards of bloody bandages. For now it needs to dry out to become flammable; the army took all of gasoline I usually use to burn my trash.

The house is clean, but my nose still picks up a rancid smell and after a moment I realize it is me. I haven't had a bath in... six days? Seven?

I go back to the cellar and drag the washbasin up into the only place in the house with a semblance of privacy – the bedroom. I set it next to the bed left behind by the old owners, it's sheets dirty with more dust.

The water from the pump is icy from the still cold ground but I can't afford to heat it. I used too much firewood boiling water to sterilize the needles and scalpel and I can't spare any until my hand heals enough to let me swing an ax. Laundry still needs to be done and meals still need to be cooked until then.

My clothes are stiff and peel away from my skin. My blouse might be mendable, but my stockings are a total loss. Maybe I can reuse them as a sieve in the kitchen once they are washed.

The bandages that I unwind from my chest are stained clear. I add them to the wash pile and slip into the freezing, clear water. It immediately clouds from the dirt on my skin and I grab the soap with my working hand, intent on washing away the last two days. The mud on my legs, the dirt on my knees, the dried blood caked under my fingernails. The splint is filthy, but there is nothing I can do about that right now. The water turns opaque, but I am clean again. I pull out the remnants of my bun and dunk my head before working the soap into my hair. The suds slide down my forehead, blocking my eyes.

Through the airless solemnity of the house, hint of noise travels up the hall, barely perceptible. I freeze, soap still in my eyes. As the sound of splashing and the soft fizz of the bubbles dissipates the house is silent. Had I imagined it? I can usually tell when the noise is coming from my own head, but this sounded like –

There it is again, soft and indistinct. A whisper of a noise coming from somewhere, inside or outside. No, I am not imagining it. There is something. Is someone here? I put down the soap and move to wipe my eyes.

Suddenly it is louder, identifying itself. A male, speaking in...English.

 _Oh no._ I dunk my head, clearing the soap, and scramble to the wardrobe, where I left my robe before all this started. I rip it from the rack and tug it around myself, already halfway down the hall. He shouldn't be awake. He isn't healed enough. God, _he was going to kill me._

I slide to a stop at the cellar door. I half expect to see him scrambling up the ladder, pure murder on his face. But it is empty and the harsh talking continues, its words unknown to me. What is he doing down there?

I should run. I should turn and head out the door. Nothing good can happen from me going down there. This is my one chance to escape. My teeth gnaw at the inside of my cheek. Where the hell would I go, soaking wet and barefoot? What could I possibly say when I'm inevitably stopped by a patrol?

My thoughts screech to a halt as a new sound emerges from below. A broken, heaving sigh, as though he wants to sob but won't allow himself the luxury. It sounds even more foreign than the English and at odds with everything I know about Joseph Leibgott. The unusualness of it, the strangeness of it, is confusing and I find myself climbing down.

As soon as I hit the floor I hug the wall, preserving as much distance between me and the cot as I can. As if that could give me any safety if he was up and conscious.

The room is warmed by the stove, but the fire is low and the light is dimming. His body, a pale outline in the fading light, is still on the cot. I swallow and tentatively step forward. His head lolls to the side, facing me. I prepare myself for the barrage of angry words, but he says nothing. I move closer and I see that his eyes are still shut. A new line of sweat beads his forehead.

He moves again, his chest shuddering. His hand clenches the frame of the cot tightly, and the muscles and veins of his arm bulging. The cot creaks under the force. His legs draw up and shoot out, as if he is trying to run into the air.

He isn't awake. The fever still grips him, making him hallucinate. I push my wet hair off my forehead, taking a relieved breath of air. He is not a danger yet.

More English emerges from him, loud and urgent. I wince. Even in the remoteness of this place, who knows what someone walking by will hear. I climb back up the ladder, slamming the cellar door shut to contain his cries.

"You must be quiet," I tell him from the ladder, but he thrashes more, not hearing me. Cautiously I approach, watching his limbs as they twitch and move. His face is screwed tight in an expression of pain. What is he seeing? Where has his mind taken him? Naked vulnerability replaces his usual cold mask, making him look more human than monster. Suddenly he is just a man, trapped in a terrible place that he never asked to be, in a scarred body fighting for its very existence.

A strange feeling wells in my chest as I watch him struggle with his invisible demons. Pity. During everything until now – our chase, him sewing himself up, Herr Schueller's visit – he has been a stone wall: solid and steady and never showing anything but an unquestioning will. Now that veneer has been stripped away by the fever, leaving a tormented, broken man behind to fight a futile battle on a flimsy cot in a cellar belonging to the enemy.

My feet move over to him, giving in to the intrinsic urge to comfort him despite my better judgment. My fingertips graze his forehead, pushing the damp hair back. Seeing him like this makes what is happening here, what I am going to have to sacrifice, much easier to swallow.

"It will be okay," I say. He still doesn't respond. His fever needs to break. I grab a rag from the shelf and soak it in the cistern of drinking water. As I approach him once more he stills, his arms wrapping themselves around his middle again.

His skin is warm, if not as hot as yesterday. I wipe away the sweat on his face and feel his jaw move. The soft words that come out are unintelligible. A shiver goes through him, shaking him under my ministrations.

"Relax," I try, hoping that my words will reach him where ever he is. I go to bathe his chest, moving his dog tags out of the way. The Star of David catches the light, making me pause. It is such a little thing, barely taking up the palm of my hand. One symbol, two triangles tangled together. It did not seem that he knew what has happened to his people here. Or how close he is to the source of the smoke to the east and the inevitable anguish that will bring him.

 _They are our enemy. They don't deserve to live among us._

He is back. I inhale sharply, squeezing my eyes shut. _Go away_.

The cot squeaks loudly as I feel Joseph jerk violently below me. My eyes snap open just in time to see pallid, dirty fingers close around my wrist.

My stomach lunges into my throat and I yank away, dropping the chain. The fingers tighten, trapping me. My eyes fly upward, fixing his face with a wide stare. This is the worst place for me to be, the worst way for me to be positioned, when he awakes.

His eyes, black and unreadable, fix me in my place. He says nothing and neither do I and we sit frozen in the silence. My heart pounds against my ribs and I tense for what will probably be a violent blow.

His arm retracts, pulling me closer, and I feel his hot breath on my face as he speaks. More English.

"I don't understand," I try, panic lacing through me. His brow furrows and his voice rises. Why is he doing this? Why does he think I know what he is saying?

His grip tightens and he shakes me slightly. The words become more angry, more urgent. I don't know. _I don't know_. What does he expect me to do here? He is going to do something terrible to me and this is going to be his excuse. His face blurs and I choke on my tears.

"I don't know what you are saying." My voice cracks. He reels back, blinking.

"We have to take _cover_."

I look at him, stunned by his sudden switch to German and the nonsense of his words. He stares back, his eyes bright.

"What do you mean?" I ask, hesitantly.

"They always wait. They always pause long enough to crawl out of our holes, to get the wounded. Then they shell us again, catching us out in the open." His furious tone matches the look on his face.

What.. I don't...

"Joseph-" I stop as his head rolls back onto the pillow and his hand loosens. His eyes close again.

He isn't... he's not awake.

I sit back, relief drooping my shoulders. Its all just-

He shoots up, grabbing my shoulders. His eyes, though clear, are unfocused.

"We need to take cover, now!" He is almost yelling.

"Joseph!" I cry back. His pupils narrow at me, bringing him down from his delusion. "It is okay! You are safe here."

This isn't even close to the truth. Every second he spends here is more dangerous than the last. But it works as I watch him nod and fall back onto the cot. I repeat my assurances as I retrieve the rag and begin wiping him down again. His eyes roll back in his head and he drifts off into a still sleep again.

I don't stop, running the cloth over him again and again.

"It's okay." The words emerge from me relentlessly and mindlessly. I don't know what I'm reassuring him against. I don't know if anything will ever be okay again. But I continue on until the light disappears and nightfall welcomes us once again.

He doesn't move, but I still don't stop.


	11. Chapter 10

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, including Maya and Luckylily! I hope everything is making sense so far. I know this story is really AU, both in plot and character development, but I wanted to do something different. Please let me know if you have any constructive criticism; I really want to make sure everyone is enjoying it!**

This was not what he wanted.

The visions were no longer visions. Somewhere in the journey the line blurred between him and what was happening and suddenly he was no longer a bystander. There was no more watching himself, impartial as he could be.

Instead he blinked and could no longer see himself. There was no more feeling of floating detachment. The smells and sights and sounds became real.

When he looked down he saw he was back in his uniform. His rifle rested in his hands. He was living his life again, thrown into the past to relive it for a reason he couldn't fathom.

He should have known he wouldn't get off so easily. There was a warning, early on. It was in Carentan, when Tip stumbled out of the blown pharmacy. As he watched himself settle on the ground holding the bloody remnants of his friend, trying to ease the terror of the poor man who wasn't given the blessing of unconsciousness, he realized his hands felt wet. When he looked down at his distant vantage he saw that they were streaked red. Tip's blood.

When the German armor targeted them outside of the village he felt himself being buffeted by the concussions on the shells. Before he could only watch men being blown about by the battle. Now he was pushed around with them.

The idea made his breath catch. He didn't want to go through this again. The painful and awful battles he had been through were enough to experience once. To have to do it again, to feel the red mist from his friends spray across him as they were hit, to have to hold their hands as they breathed their last… watching it was bad enough. To be there firsthand again was a crushing punishment he didn't deserve.

There was no reasoning, no greater voice to tell him why. And as he moved forward the idea that he knew what was happening, that he had the perspective of knowing the future faded too. Then he was just a soldier again, trying to crush down the lingering doubt that he was going to survive day by day.

Everything was fresh again. Every emotion hit with the same harsh blow as it had the first time.

The calculating calmness that stilled him when his gun was at his shoulder, ready to aim and fire.

The well of depression as the men from Toccoa fell, one by one.

The feel of Alley leaning on him, struggling to breathe after the grenade shredded his insides.

The cold fury as he sighted the field of SS soldiers down his rifle's barrel.

The itching desire to finish what he started, even as Winters forcibly pulled him away.

And then the dark trees of the Ardennes stared back at him.

He had the distant impression that a thin link was still there, a lingering awareness that this wasn't quite genuine. But everything made it seem like it was. He could feel the cold eat at him as he stood there, watching the beleaguered 28th Infantry stumble past them. The pain from his still-healing neck made itself known when he turned his head.

This might as well be real. He didn't want to be back here, back in this godforsaken foxhole. He didn't know why he was having to go through this again. Maybe he wasn't meant to go to Heaven.

He dove into the dirt as the air around him ripped apart with explosions.

Maybe Hell was spending an eternity in Bastigone.

* * *

He was moving through the mess of blown trunks and broken branches.

It was cold. So cold that he had stopped shivering. His body had given up trying to keep warm and now all he had were the layers of grimy army-issued fatigues and a pair of ripped up gloves between him and hypothermia.

The snow crunched under his boots as he walked. The shelling had stopped for now and it was quiet. Everyone waited, peeking out their holes as the crying injured were carted off to the med station and the dead were carted off to somewhere else. Men spoke in whispers, passing the news about who had lived and who had died.

He didn't stop, not until the snow around him turned red and he could see the demolished pit in the ground.

Luz stood nearby, compulsively smoking. The butts of half a dozen cigarettes lay at his feet. He was staring off into the distance.

"I was caught out in the open," he said, taking another deep drag, not talking to anyone in particular. "They were the closest foxhole. I got halfway to them. They didn't have a chance."

Joe looked back to the impromptu grave.

"Just be thankful you didn't make it," he ground out, his voice rough from the dry, punishing air. "Or else you'd be dead too."

His words weren't kind. They weren't the half-assed condolences people said to one another back in the States. Back in the other world of manners and niceties. But they were what Luz needed to hear. Under the grueling and unrelenting cold and carnage they were all worn down to the nub. The only thing a man had out here, the only thing that could keep him going, was the reminder that he wasn't dead yet. That he had survived another barrage and would maybe survive the next.

Luz blinked, coming out of his ruminating, and focused on Joe. "I gotta write Faye. She deserves more than a telegram."

Joe nodded, silently agreeing. Skip had been so enamored with her. War made men reckless and when they were on leave alcohol and sex were there for the taking. But Skip was always the saint, calmly explaining to every skirt that came on to him that he was a taken man.

It wasn't fair.

He turned to leave and go back to his hole. He just had to see this for himself, to know what had happened to his dwindling number of friends.

"Do you know if Penkala had anyone?" Luz called out to him. "I'll write her too."

He hadn't known Penkala that well. Shaking his head, he disappeared back into the mist.

The replacement he was paired with was huddled at the bottom of their hole, his skinny limbs trembling with shivers. Joe's boots splashed in the icy mud as he jumped in. The replacement glanced at him out of the corner of his eye before reburying himself in a scarf he had scrounged from somewhere. Joe sighed and took a seat. They had barely spoken a word to each other in the two weeks they had been together. According to Martin the kid was terrified of him. To a teenager from Ohio who probably lied about his age to get signed up, people like Joe and the others who had been here from the beginning were intimidating. And combat had only hardened Joe's prickly exterior. Most replacements didn't make it through the first month on the front anyway. There was no reason to be friendly.

He leaned his head back against the dirt wall. Sometimes he found himself surprised to be here. To be still alive when others like Skip and Penkala and Hoobler weren't. He didn't think he was the most deserving. He hadn't done anything special. He had been commended about keeping his calm under fire, but that wasn't any real surprise. The hard shell encasing his insides prevented him from losing it, from doing something stupid like running away from battle or having "hysterical blindness" like Blythe. Whatever the hell that was.

Most everyone who didn't know him kept their distance after what he did at the crossroads in Holland spread around. Even if there was no sympathy for the Germans, they realized it took a certain type of person to be so methodically destructive, killing the enemy bullet by bullet even after they stopped fighting back.

He guessed he was that type of person.

He lit a cigarette.

Maybe something was broken in him. He knew from a young age he wasn't normal. Toccoa was a lifeline that gave him his first friends, but they didn't fix whatever was wrong with him or cure the standoffishness that kept everyone at arm's length. He didn't have a family to write to, didn't have a girl waiting for him, and only showed limited interest in the English dames who threw themselves at him, even if they were eventually turned off by his closed-off brutishness. The emotional unavailability that naturally made him a good soldier and a good killer.

The replacement shifted and let out a loud sigh that shook from the cold. Joe put out his cigarette in the mud.

But it wasn't that he couldn't feel anything. Underneath his unperturbed exterior he mourned the loss of the men he'd known since Georgia. When he closed his eyes he could still see Tip struggling to walk on two broken legs. Could see Alley fight to stay alive. He still felt like he could break, especially if they didn't get out of these fucking woods soon.

He was still human. His friends knew it. Everyone else could go fuck themselves.

The dirt wasn't comfortable, but he willed himself to relax anyway. Maybe he could get some sleep before the night watch.

Time ticked slowly by, until both he and the rookie heard a noise rise from the fog.

 _Whomp Whomp Whomp_

Even though he had only been in the war a couple of weeks, the replacement knew that sound. He let out a panicked yelp and dove into the mud at the bottom of the hole. Joe hissed and slid down as well, trying to keep his head clear of the kill zone where the hole met ground level. _Not again._

"Incoming!"

The first explosion hit about thirty feet from them. Dirt and snow showered down, coating their helmets and clothes. Then the next explosion and then another, the pace quickening as the Germans zeroed in on them. The ground shook and trembled like it was going to break apart and swallow them whole.

"Oh God," the replacement clawed at the mud, trying to dig himself deeper. "We're going to die!"

Through the flashes and flying dirt Joe watched, his teeth chattering with every earth-shaking hit. The replacement hadn't acted like this the last time.

There was a blinding flash as a shell struck just outside the hole. The kid screamed and Joe closed his eyes, willing it to be over even if it meant he had to find out who else had been killed.

Behind his eyelids he could still see the bursts of light, could still feel the succession of shells pulse through him only slightly slower that the rapid pounding of his heart.

He could already hear the screaming. Someone was hit. Someone always was.

And just like that, it stopped. Peace fell over them, even as dust lingered in the air making it hard to breathe. It was a stunted silence, a tense pause as everyone took a breath and made sure all their limbs were still in place and their buddies weren't in pieces.

"Watch the line!" he heard Lipton yell. Joe climbed up to check the opposing trees. No movement.

"I can't take this," a shaky voice came from behind him. The replacement stared at him with wide eyes, his skin devoid of color. "I can't stay here."

"You don't have a choice," Joe replied, his voice deprived of compassion. He had no use for a soldier who couldn't take it and even less for a kid who thought he was going to be hero and found out he was a coward instead.

He turned back to watch the line. Besides, there was no going anywhere yet. He didn't think the shelling was over.

"Fuck you," the kid replied, even as his voice shook with fear. "You can't keep me here."

Joe tossed an annoyed glance over his shoulder. "Where the fuck are you going to go, kid? In case you forgot, we are surrounded."

The replacement stared at him silently for a few more seconds. Then, wordlessly, he shot out of the hole, running towards the rear.

"Shit," Joe muttered, climbing out after him. Lipton would have his hide for letting a rookie lose it in the middle of the siege. And despite being utterly hopeless as a soldier so far, he was still just a scared teenager. Running now was suicidal.

"It isn't over! Get back in the foxhole!" he called out. The replacement didn't answer and kept running.

Suddenly Joe felt wetness on his face and neck. What the fuck? He wiped his hand on his forehead. Water. Was it raining?

 _Whomp Whomp Whomp_

 _Son of a bitch._

He dove forward, tackling the replacement as the shell hit a tree, shattering it into a million splinters.

The kid fought, kicking against Joe as he tried to get away. The fucker was going to get them both killed. He caught the fist that was swung towards his face.

"We have to take cover!"

Suddenly the replacement stopped, staring at Joe's face. Another tree exploded by them.

Joe tried to pull him to his feet, but the kid wasn't moving. He tried again.

"We have to take cover!"

Another explosion.

The replacement's brows furrowed in confusion. "I don't understand," he replied. Joe froze, trying to make sure he heard right over the commotion. The kid was speaking in fucking German.

Joe shoved himself back. A shell hit near them and the force pushed him further away. The replacement still didn't move. He wasn't bilingual. Joe knew it. All the guys in the unit who spoke German were given a translator designation to show that they weren't enemy agents. This kid didn't have it.

"Who the fuck are you? Why do you speak German?" he screamed over the noise.

"I don't know what you are saying," the kid replied, still in German. Another explosion hit nearby.

"Take cover!" Lipton screamed from a distance.

Goddammit. He needed to get them to a hole. If the soldier was some sort of German spy Joe would beat the living shit out of him. But they had to live through this first.

He grabbed the replacement again. "We need to take _cover_ ," he yelled, this time in German too.

Still fucking no response. "What do you mean?"

Joe couldn't believe this. He had to rationalize with this asshole in the middle of a bombardment? "They always wait. They always pause long enough to crawl out of our holes, to get the wounded. Then they shell us again, catching us out in the open," he tried.

That's why their dumb asses where caught in this hellhole. If the kid had only held out a few more minutes –

A tree beside the replacement was hit, spraying wood everywhere. Joe flinched as it hit his helmet and jacket. A stake flew past him, piercing the rookie's chest. The kid's head lolled back, shock replacing the confusion in his features.

Shit. If this fucker died now Joe would never know what the hell was going on.

"We need to take cover, now!" He grabbed the replacement and heaved him over his shoulder. Blood from the wound leaked down, soaking Joe's uniform.

Another explosion not feet from them. He was thrown back by the force and hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of his lungs and cause stars to dance in his vision.

"Joseph!"

Suddenly everything went silent, like he had suddenly gone deaf. There were no more explosions, no more screams of pain calling in the distance. His eyes focused and he found himself in that cellar, with that woman staring at him. Her hair was wet and plastered to her face.

"It is okay! You are safe here." She reassured him in German.

The logical part of his brain raised an alarm. She was the enemy. She wasn't tied up. But a strange haziness over took him. What was real? Any of it? Was he dying?

And then he blinked and she was gone. The snow stared back at him, stained with the now dead body of the replacement. There were no more bombs. His head hurt.

"It's okay." The words echoed in his head as he stumbled to his feet. Through the lingering cloud of dirt he saw Lipton running for him.

"Joe! Are you okay?" Joe rubbed his face. It was still damp.

"Yeah, I'm-"

 _Whomp Whomp Whomp_

He looked up to see the shell, falling through the sky to come down right on top of him. There was no running, no taking cover. His gaze met Lipton's and he felt the air leave him. This was it. This was the end. Lipton lunged for him but he disappeared, along with everything else, in a bright, white light.

He felt himself jerk and there was a loud squeak of metal underneath him. His eyes snapped open. The light was gone, and so was Lipton. Stone walls stared back at him and for a moment he didn't know where he was.

Breath moved through his lungs. The air was warm but his skin was cold. Feeling crawled back into his muscles that were stiff from disuse. A dull ache curled from his side. He looked down. Thick bandages surrounded his middle.

The retreat. The wound. Caroline.

He clambered up to a sitting position, his eyes darting around the room as he waiting for it to stop spinning. He wasn't dead. His surroundings had a realness to them, a sharp clarity that only in retrospect he knew his dreams didn't have. He was alive.

Jesus Christ.

He roughly scrubbed his face with his palms. His limbs felt heavy and his side protested the movement. He was fucking alive.

His rifle. He swung around. He needed his rifle.

It was where he left it against the wall. He launched himself to his feet, going after it. As soon as the familiar weight was back in his hands he felt better. It was still loaded.

He leaned against the wall, trying to process his bearings even as his knees shook. What the fuck was going on? How long had he been out?

The floorboards above him creaked and everything in him stilled. The Nazi girl. She wasn't down here. She had gotten away.

He only had one option now. She was loose and now the primary threat to his safety.

He paused, listening. A single pair of footsteps sounded in the house. If it was her, she was alone. He had the element of surprise.

The familiar stony calmness enclosed around him just like it had in Holland. He made for the ladder, his mind clearing with every step.

He was no longer in Bastigone. It had all been a dream. But whatever gratefulness he could feel was replaced with the alarm that he had lost control of this situation and now it was likely he was going to be captured.

There were unpleasant things to do now. Caroline was number one on his list.


	12. Chapter 11

**Sorry for the delay - had some writer's block with this chapter.**

 **Welcome back mngirl :)**

The warm taste of metal slides across my tongue.

I jump, pulling my finger from my lips. The torn skin beads with new blood that quickly drips to the floor below. I have bitten through another nail. It stings as I wrap it in my apron, staunching the flow.

I haven't chewed my nails in years. Not since -

 _If you don't stop you'll be punished. Our Fuhrer only wants those who are perfect._

The sheets and bandages steam in the laundry basket as I haul them out of the boiling water. There's no use in getting lost in that again.

Grabbing the shovel, I bank the ashes in the hearth. There might be enough firewood to cook dinner. But that is not the pressing problem.

The cupboard door is open, displaying the meager food inside. A crust of bread gone stale during the battle sits on the shelf, a can of salt pork and a can of sardines its lonely guardians.

There are the few jars of vegetables in the cellar. Enough for one person for week or so. But not two.

I pull the basket into my side with my good hand and head to the line I've strung out back. The air still bites, but the sun is finally warm enough to keep the fabric from freezing. The sheets are hot as I throw them onto the line and burn at my fingertips.

I used up the rest of my ration stamps last week and there won't be more coming soon. The bare patch of dirt that had been my garden is just beyond the yard. It never overcame the long freeze of the winter and even my cold weather vegetables shriveled away. There won't be anything to forage in the woods for at least a few more weeks. I chew on the inside of my cheek.

It's my fault really. They offered me jobs, back in Berlin.

 _Serve your country and you will be rewarded._

They were jobs that had good pay and included apartments with modern amenities like electricity. But I turned them down. I couldn't handle it. And the next thing I knew I was put on a train to come here.

The breeze is strong and the sheets whip up, hitting me in the face. I beat them back down and move on to the bandages.

This is the last of the laundry at least. My palms sting raw from the soda I used to get the blood out of Joseph's uniform shirts. They are drying safely inside, by the kitchen hearth and away from curious eyes.

 _I will find out. I am watching._

I'm hungry. The voice always gets bad when I don't have the energy to slam it shut in a safe part of my brain.

The stitches in my back pull as I reach upwards. They haven't been re-wrapped since my bath yesterday; I used the extra bandages on Joseph. They'll just have to wait until everything is dry.

As I hang the last of the fabric I roll my shoulders, trying to release the knots. I don't remember falling asleep last night and it wasn't until the pain in my neck nudged me awake that I realized that I was still sitting next to the American's cot, my head bent to rest on the frame. At least I'll be able to sleep in my own bed again tonight.

Now if I could only figure out what we are going to eat.

Another gust of wind kicks up and the sheets billow. Rubbing my neck I watch them, feeling myself frowning.

As they fall back a movement encroaches the side of my vision, drawing me out of my miserable thinking. I jerk my head around but then the sheets fly up again and I'm blinded. I move to look around the laundry line.

 _I told you I would be coming. You know what is going to happen._

I halt, my heart sinking in my chest. The air is still too cold for the birds and animals. The movement could only be an unwelcome visitor.

No one calls out to greet me and I hesitate, hidden by the laundry. What if they let themselves inside, looking for me? They will find the uniforms. They will find Joseph. Even if it is Greta, there is no way I can talk my way out of this. And if it's _him_ …

The sheets die down, clearing my view to the back door. With growing dread I realize that it is open. I remember it clicking shut behind me. That wasn't the wind's fault.

Someone _is_ here. I stiffen, my eyes probing the shadows inside the house. There is a shift and something metal flashes in sun. I feel myself drawing back, recoiling against whatever new catastrophe has landed at my feet.

The darkness unfolds and a figure becomes visible, squinting in the afternoon sun.

Suddenly I feel like I am floating, the ground dropping away from under my feet. It isn't the Nazis. It isn't Greta. My eyes are glued to the pale figure moving into the light.

It's the worst possibility. Joseph.

A gasp sneaks past my lips and suddenly I feel hot even in the chill of early spring. A clammy sweat breaks across my skin. It can't be him. I thought I had more time.

He sees me immediately. His eyes shift from scanning the yard to narrow in my direction. Another flash, and his rifle is up at his shoulder, pointing at me.

I'm rooted to my spot, watching with stunned disbelief as his slow but steady steps start towards me.

He can't be awake. He can't already be up and moving about.

No words pass between us and the laundry rises to cover me again. The interruption breaks into my stupefied thoughts.

 _Watch, Caroline._ _Watch what happens to traitors._

Get away. I have to get away. I knew this was going to happen. My worst fears are coming true. He has found me free and now I am going to pay the price.

I don't want to die yet.

 _Nothing less than what you deserve._

I turn, preparing to make a break for it, but I'm not fast enough. His footsteps quicken on the dry, dead grass and he crashes through the sheets, coming for me. I lurch away from him, but his hand shoots out and grabs my collar. I wheel around under the force and feel myself being dragged back to the house. Terror rises up from my stomach, closing my throat. A thin, panicked sound wheezes from me, the only noise in our silent struggle. My mind goes haywire, desperation overwhelming any capacity for speech or rational thought. His skin is cold as I dig my nails into his wrist. My legs shove the heels of my shoes into the dirt to slow us down. He doesn't react. Dark fury radiates from him and I know I will get no mercy when we get inside. He pulls me through the first line of sheets and the material catches my hair to pull it into my face.

I look wildly through the strands, trying to find a weapon. Nothing. With dawning dread I realize that there is only one thing I can do to save myself. My only chance to get away even if it risks him murdering me right on the spot.

My good hand curls into a fist and before I can consider what I am doing I lash out, striking the gauze surrounding his middle as hard as I can.

Time stops and as he immediately pauses. I don't breathe as what little color he has drains from his appearance and every muscle in his arms and chest tenses. For a second we stand there, frozen as statues.

Then he sucks in a ragged breath and I know that if I don't get away from him within the next few seconds I'll never have another chance. I press my advantage and wrench myself in the opposite direction, willing the pain to break the hold his fingers have on my blouse. I don't care if he shoots me in the back. That would probably be the kindest thing he could do to me after what I just did.

I don't make it a full step before I am yanked back, slamming into his torso. I bounce off of him and go to lunge again, only to be stopped by the cold barrel of the rifle digging underneath my chin. It forces my head back, until I am looking at his white and ferocious face. His hold on me only tightens until I know there will be no escape. There will be no compassion. There will be nothing but the ending of an ugly, pointless life of a condemned woman. And I know only damnation waiting for me at the other end of that trigger.

The two lines of sheets wrap around from either side, cocooning us in a sea of white. He doesn't move, prolonging the torment.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't shoot you right now."

I blink, jerking slightly at the unexpectedness of his voice. I can't answer. I don't know what to say. What does he want to hear?

He pushes the barrel harder, propelling my upper body back until I'm off balance and his grip on my blouse is the only thing keeping me upright.

"How did you escape?"

My eyes water as the end of the gun cuts into me. The look on his face hasn't changed; it's only answers he wants – some final information before he finishes me off.

My mouth won't form words. My body has stopped listening and lays rigid as a board just above the ground.

The silence angers him further and his eyes darken.

"Who else knows I'm here? Who have you told?" His hand shakes me and gun presses down like it is going to stab through my jaw. I can no longer see his face as it pushes my head further back. The blueness of the sky rises in between the tops of the sheets.

The pain is too much. I can't breathe. I instinctively paw at the gun with my hands, desperate to push it away. Suddenly I'm being pulled back, upwards and against him. I suck in air, dizzy from abruptly being back on my feet. When I look to him his eyes are locked onto my splint, then move down to his own bandages.

The abject rage that crosses his expression has me bracing for a gunshot. I gasp as his hand encircles the back of neck, his fingertips pressing into my skin. The rifle stays between us, now digging into my cheek.

"Who helped you?" he seethes. "Who was here? I swear to God, if you don't start talking you are going to regret it. I want to know what happened. Answer me!"

"Stop," I plead, choking on my own panic. "No one did. No one knows you are here."

I hear a low growl deep in his chest and abruptly the gun is gone. I want to collapse but then I am yanked to him until his face is millimeters from mine.

"Then who did this?" he asks, his voice dangerously quiet.

"I did," I whisper back, trying to stop myself from trembling.

He stares at me silently. I blink and feel wetness on my cheeks. The seconds tick by, stretching every torturous moment. What is he thinking? What is he planning?

My feet itch to run again.

His lips purse and I am pushed away. I stumble as a wave of lightheadedness threatens to send me to my knees. His fingers go to wrap around my arm as he looks to the clothesline where the gauze is drying.

The muscle in his jaw works. "How did you-"

"Caroline?" A voice calls over the yard. The air snaps between us and he slaps a hand over my mouth, muffling my startled gasp. The rifle falls with a soft crunch onto the ground. He goes down to a kneel beside it, yanking me down with him. My knees hit the earth roughly, the grass sharp with winter's freeze.

"Who is that?" he hisses, pulling his hand away and trying to look in between the sheets. I barely hear him as my pulse ratchets up, drowning out everything else.

"Greta," I force out. "It sounds like Greta."

The world spins and I feel myself sway. I'm going to pass out. This is too much. I am going to get killed. I was just doing laundry and now I am going to die.

"Hey!" He jerks me into him. The rifle is back in his hand, I notice. "Stay with me. Who is Greta?"

I want to throw up. "She's my friend."

"Does she know?"

He is going to kill her too.

"No." I swallow back my bile. "She doesn't."

"Caroline? Are you back here?"

 _Run, Greta. Get away from here as fast as you can_.

I see him fit his rifle into his shoulder. His face is blank, unnervingly so. He can't hurt Greta. I won't let him. I can't.

No one else can die because of me.

"Wait," I croak, grabbing his arm. He tenses and his gaze rips back to me, burning.

I screw up my courage. "Don't hurt her."

He yanks his arm away from my hand and turns to look back where the voice is coming from, ignoring me. His legs gather under him, ready to dart out and fire.

Frantic, I claw at him, grabbing him again. "I can get us out of this without you killing her."

His blank look dissolves into vehemence. "Get your hands off of me unless you want to be next."

"You can't." The words rush out of me in a harsh whisper, a shaky semblance of a plan forming in my rattled mind. He won't care that she's my friend. An appeal to his emotions is useless. All that matters to him is his own security.

"If you fire your gun every soldier within a mile is going to come running. They know what an American gun sounds like." I would bet that they don't, but he doesn't need to know that. Nervous sweat creases my palm. I wipe it on my skirt.

He freezes for a moment, then turns to me. The muscle of his jaw works again and his mouth flattens. I hear footsteps walking towards the back door. He stiffens at this and glowers in my direction.

"You have two seconds." Reluctance marks every word.

I let out a breath. He believes me. I need to hide him and his uniforms from her. That is the only way to get her out alive. "Your uniforms are drying in the kitchen. I'm am going to go out there - "

"No-" he begins, looking between the sheets again. I shake my head and continue, my anxiety masquerading as bravery.

"I am going to distract her and take her around to the side of the house. You need to get inside, hide your uniforms, and get back to the cellar."

He glares at me. "I'm not fucking let you out of my sight."

"It's our only choice. We can't stay here. She is going to find us."

"Just tell her to go away. Don't let her inside," he counters.

I shake my head. "I don't think I can do that without her realizing something is wrong. She's my best friend. She knows me."

There is an agonizingly long beat of silence. I can sense him turning what I'm saying over in his head. I am asking him to trust me. I am asking the impossible.

"I patched you up. If I was going to turn you in I would have done it already," I add softly, my only argument against his indecision.

His face hardens and he looks at me again. "Fine," he spits, "But if someone besides you comes down those cellar stairs all bets are off. Understood?"

I nod and duck under the sheets behind us before he can say anything else or I lose my nerve. I leap to my feet, grabbing the laundry basket to cover the shaking of my fingers.

Greta stands by my back door, looking to go in.

"Greta!" I call loudly, willing my pounding heart to subside. She turns away from the door and I force my shoulders down, to appear natural as if I wasn't seconds away from a panic attack. Even from his hiding spot I can feel Joseph's gaze burn into my back.

Part of me expects him to just shoot both of us and run.

"Caroline? Where have you been? I've been calling. What on earth happened to your hair?"

The muscles of my cheeks pull into a fake smile and I pat my hair down with the splint.

"I was hanging laundry. The sun was so warm I laid down and I must have drifted off."

"Really?" She glances at the sky, tugging her sweater around her. It doesn't make sense and she knows it. I know trying to explain further will just make me seem more dishonest, so I wait for her to speak, still smiling.

She gives me an odd look, but nods. "I haven't seen you in a couple of days. I came by to see how your injuries are healing."

Of course. She is only checking on me. The liar who is putting her danger by being her friend. She has no idea how close she is to being executed by simply being here. Because of me.

"They're fine." My voice breaks and I cough to cover it. The thought of grabbing her and taking off towards the safety of the village flitters across my brain, but I just as quickly I dismiss it. He could kill us before we make it out of the yard. My original plan is the safest option.

"Actually, Greta, while you are here I was wondering if you could give some advice on my garden." I use the splint to point at the empty patch at the side of the house.

"Your garden?" Greta peers at me before glancing over to where I'm gesturing.

"Yes." I try to sound confident as I begin to walk over, hoping she will follow me. She does and I let out a silent sigh of relief. One hurdle down.

There are no windows on this side of the house and I herd us past the rickety rabbit fence onto the frozen dirt, keeping our backs to the yard.

 _Go, Joseph._

I hear nothing behind us but the breeze flapping the sheets.

"What sort of advice do you need?" Greta's voice reaches me, perplexed.

I jerk my attention back to her, verbalizing the first believable problem that comes to mind. "My rations are running low and my winter crop failed. Is there anything I can do to salvage this? Can you think of anything that will grow quickly to help me?"

Greta is silent as she considers her answer. I risk a glance over my shoulder. I don't see anything.

"The people who lived here before didn't do a very good job maintaining the dirt. It's probably nutrient poor. You know how those people can be. Don't care a wit about the land." Her bigotry is casual and I nod along, appearing agreeable. "You might be able to get some early nettles, but you will probably just have to make do until they send us the next round of cards. Of course in the spring some good fertilizer-"

She prattles on about the basics of gardening. I half listen, perking my ears for any sound behind me. The crunch of grass under boots, the soft thump of footsteps inside… anything to indicate he was going along with the plan. With cold dismay I realize I don't hear anything. Did he decide to try to get back to the line? Did he just leave?

He isn't healthy enough to go back on his own. Even if he was standing, his color wasn't good. And he doesn't have his shirts to keep him warm. My attempts to save him and my chance at redemption could amount to nothing if he tries to make it back now.

"I'll try to get you some of the rations at the aid station if you are starving, but they keep a pretty strict count."

The offer brings me back around. I don't need her risking herself on my behalf. "No, no. I will make due, like you said. I was just wondering if you had any ideas."

She tightens her lips and shakes her head. "Things are tough all over. The store barely has anything, regardless of the ration cards. Hopefully the Americans will be pushed back further and they can get us some supplies without the transports being destroyed. We are getting low at the aid station too."

I frown, picturing my one journey to the medical tent. "I'm sorry."

I don't know what I am apologizing for. Not volunteering? The general situation? Helping the enemy that is causing us to starve?

 _Good-for-nothing traitor._

She doesn't question me and pats my arm. "Enough of the war talk. Let's go inside so I can take a look at you."

I gulp and slowly turn to follow her. There isn't any other reason to delay. She's getting cold. Did Joseph have enough time? Is he even in there?

She steps through the doorway, looking around. I falter, watching her. Her face doesn't change. No surprised exclamations. No condemning stares.

Her lack of reaction fans a small flame of hope and I step through as well, my eyes automatically flying to the hearth where the uniforms were drying, their American symbols clear as day.

The empty line hangs innocently, illuminated orange from the embers. I swing my head around towards the cellar door. It's closed.

Greta moves to sit at the table and I dazedly follow her, using every ounce of willpower to hide by overwhelming relief.

I don't speak as she goes to undo the splint. I'm afraid I might burst into tears if I utter a single word. He listened to me. There is a chance we both might survive this.

"This is looking much better, Caroline." Greta nods approvingly at my hand. I swallow and focus on the appendage. The swelling has improved considerably. A bruise, red and black, stretches across my knuckles. A smaller one wraps around my palm in the shape of Schueller's fingers.

"Can you move it?" I test my fingers, trying to curl them inward. I make it about a quarter of the way before the pain stops me in my tracks.

"That's excellent." She re-secures it in the splint. "You should start practicing every night until you get your mobility back."

I nod and she moves to lift up the back of my blouse. This time her assessment isn't so positive.

"Why aren't these wrapped? Didn't I tell you to wrap them until I could remove the stitches?"

"I had to wash the bandages – " I try.

"How did you dirty them so quickly? I saw how many were hanging on the line. Have you been bleeding?"

"No." I say quickly, coming up with another fabrication. "Those are ones I had before. I got them dirty when I tried to stop the bleeding before seeing you. I only took one from the aid station. I saw how you needed them."

God, you are an awful person Caroline. _Liar._

Greta lets out a small _humph_ and goes to her bag to grab a bottle of antiseptic. "I'm going to clean them off and re-wrap them. You need to be more careful or you're going to get an infection."

"Thank you," I reply as I feel the sting of the antiseptic hit my back. As she works I try to keep the hammering of my heart down so she doesn't feel it through my skin. That was a close one. I need to hustle her out of here as soon as she's done. The longer she stays, I know, the more stories I am going to have to make up. And the thinner Joseph's patience is going to get.

As soon she wraps a fresh bandage around my torso I pull my shirt back down, tucking it into my skirt. "Thank you for stopping by, Greta. Are you on your way to the aid station?"

She lets out a weary sigh before giving me a smile. "Yes, but fortunately things are calming down. We were worried that the Americans would attack again, but it appears that they are recovering too. So we should get a break before the battle starts again."

"That's good," I say, my awkwardness apparent. I never know what to say when she talks about the aid station. My lack of participation and my blackened past lie underneath every conversation that involves the sacrifices for the war.

Fortunately she doesn't comment on it and makes her way to the door. "I will try to stop by again soon. Take care of yourself, Caroline."

"You too, Greta," I call before shutting and locking the door. The rough wood bites into my forehead as I immediately collapse against it. It worked. She is gone without knowing a thing. Everyone survived.

Her next visit cannot be far enough away.

A rustle sounds from underneath the floorboards. It's time to go down there and meet my fate, whatever Joseph deems it to be. Steeling myself, I go to open the cellar door.


	13. Chapter 12

**Happy Monday everyone! Please enjoy and thanks again for the reviews :)**

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He was an idiot.

A rube. A fool. A sitting duck.

He looked up from underneath the ladder. At least in this position he had a chance to defend himself against whoever came down to get him before they could see him. Unless, of course, they just threw a grenade and blasted this entire room to kingdom come.

What the fuck was he thinking, going along with her plan? She was a goddamn Nazi. Whatever happened to knock him out must have addled his brain. He was supposed to have gone out there and gotten rid of her. Solve the problem once and for all. But he hadn't done it. He, Joseph Leibgott, hadn't followed through in ridding himself of the enemy.

What the hell was wrong with him?

When he initially stumbled upstairs the house was empty. Then he caught sight of her moving in the yard immediately and he was sure of what he had to do. He needed to run and leave no one behind who could recognize him if he had to ditch his uniform and fake it across German territory. He pressed himself against the wall and cracked the door open. He waited, urgency fighting with his control, to see if there was anyone else out there. Anyone waiting for him.

After a few minutes watching her hang the laundry he realized that she had to be alone. She didn't look away from the task at hand, didn't say a word. Only a deep frown marred her face as she stared at the sheets. She was clearly lost in her own thoughts as only a solitary person could be.

When the wind moved the laundry to block her vision he pulled the door open. He wanted her to have as little warning as possible. He didn't want to chase her again, or shoot her in the back. He didn't like doing that, even when it was necessary.

A quick scan of the yard proved that she was alone. When he looked to her again the laundry had moved and she had realized he was there. She stood, staring at him with the blankness of shock, as he began to approach. He moved his rifle up to point at her, in case she had a surprise hidden in the pockets of her apron. But she didn't move.

It was until he reached the first line of laundry that he saw her shift and immediately recognized what she was going to do. She realized why he was coming for her. She knew just as much as he did what her being free meant to him and the jeopardy she represented.

She should have just sat tight in that cellar. She should have done what he told her and he could have waited until the 501st attacked again to disappear into the haze of battle. Then he wouldn't have to do this.

She was the enemy, and he didn't give the enemy second chances.

He didn't mind that she tried to run. It was only natural. When he grabbed her to take her back of the house she turned into dead weight. He side stung, but he still didn't fault her. He was going back to that house because noise carries, and she knew the only thing waiting for her in there was going to end her life.

He wanted to pity her. He wanted to empathize with the bad luck that brought him into her life to destroy it so thoroughly. But he didn't. He couldn't. Nazis don't deserve sympathy.

They had barely gotten a few feet when without warning she stiffened against him. Before he could process what this meant he saw her arm fly out and a second later everything went black.

He couldn't see. He couldn't move. It was amazing he stayed on his feet. Through the roaring pain that tore into him he vaguely felt her try to pull away from him.

She'd hit him. She'd struck him at his weakest point to distract him and get away. She wanted him to be lying here, rolled in a ball from the agony, for her little Nazi friends to find.

A hot, blazing fury ripped through his insides, melting the ice and stripping away the reconciled indifference. His hand tightened, almost ripping through her shirt. The wrath buried the pain, replacing it with fevered anger that narrowed his vision down to the back of her blond head struggling to get away from him.

She wasn't going to get very far, oh no. When he yanked her back against him he saw from her face that she knew what she had done. She knew exactly what she was doing.

It took everything in him not to pull the trigger, to not send another Nazi to their well-deserved grave. Her only saving grace was the one thing competing with the rage coursing through him. He needed to know who else she had told. Who else knew who and where he was. He needed to know what to expect when he took off.

But she wouldn't answer his questions. She remained stubbornly silent, even as he had her bent over backwards with his rifle.

He was sure she was terrified. She deserved it. She and the rest of her people deserved everything coming to them.

Then she tried to push the gun away from her.

It was the sight of her hand, splinted with knots that had clearly been made by someone else, that seized his attention. His brain went to overdrive and he looked down to his torso to see that it was wrapped in actual bandages instead of torn sheets. Proof, he realized, that someone else had been here. That someone else was out there, armed with the knowledge that could end his life.

And she wasn't telling him who.

The red haze that enveloped him was foreign. Sounds faded until all he could hear was his own frenzied heartbeat pounding in his eardrums. His vision became a blur of colors and indistinguishable shapes. He knew she was still there. He could feel words coming out of his mouth, angry words directed at her. But he felt himself detaching, becoming unhinged as the unbridled panic and rage bubbled up from a dark place inside him, a black hole that had always lurked behind his hard defenses ever since he realized that the only way to survive is to already be dead inside.

If his dreams had proved anything, it was that being anything but a heartless asshole only led to the inescapable pain of loss. His ventures in friendship and humanity were already over, marked by the scattered graves across this continent. So he let the darkness suck him down until he didn't care that she was crying and didn't care that the line between being a human and a savage was on the cusp of breaking with every hateful thought that marched its way through his mind.

His finger curled around the trigger. He was going to blow this woman's head off if she didn't start _fucking_ talking.

Distantly he heard her tell him that she had fixed him up. _Bullshit_. A growl shook his ribs.

His fingers found her neck.

 _Nothing but a Nazi. No reason to let her live._

Wasn't this what he wanted to be? Wasn't it for the best if everyone was afraid of him?

Then he felt the tiny pinpricks of pain shooting from his arm, pushing their way through the fog to the part of him that was still desperately hanging on to the notion that there was still hope for him. Hope that hinged on whether he would fall off this precipice from which there was no return.

Suddenly everything swayed and his vision snapped back to focus on her. She was inches from him, her mouth quivering uncontrollably and her eyes watery with hopelessness.

 _Shit_. Could he just murder her?

War means terrible things happen. No one would fault him for getting rid of a Nazi, even if she wasn't armed.

 _But_ s _he had only helped him._

For who knows what reason. She can't be trusted.

 _But she's the only reason he's alive._

She's told someone and won't tell him who.

 _Maybe because he immediately tried to fucking kill her._

Goddammit.

He sucked in a breath, trying to forcibly draw himself away from this unspeakable side of himself, away from the new and grotesque person he now knew he was capable of being. He focused on the pain, bringing himself back to where he stood, chilling in the early spring air, holding a shaking young woman by the nape of her neck.

Her fingernails were cutting into his forearm, the knuckles of her hand cracked and red from the cold. Her splinted hand pushed uselessly against his chest. With calculating eyes he took her in, trying to convince himself to maybe – possibly – consider that she was telling the truth.

The wound in his side hadn't killed him yet. He supposed he should give her a chance if only for that.

It was the first time in since they met that she wasn't covered by shadows. She was younger than he anticipated, younger than she should be for a someone living alone out here. Maybe around his age or a couple years his junior. He loosened his grip on her neck as he studied her fully, the silence stretching between them. Although she barely met his chin she was tall for a woman, which emphasized her scrawniness. He already knew she thin from hauling her around, but the baggy skirt and loose shirt made her look emaciated. Her sweater was old and too big for her. The hem was coming undone at the collar.

He moved back to her face, taking in the coloring that was the polar opposite of his - light where he was dark. A pale scar traveled down her left temple, ending at her cheekbone. Her nose was red from either crying or the brisk breeze.

She blinked and two more ears raced down her pale cheeks. Behind her, bandages hung on the line. They were the same kind that were now wrapped around his stomach.

And just like that it felt like a bucket of water had been dumped on him. The angry fire snuffed out, leaving him feeling empty and drained. He had been running on the burning power of righteous anger and it made him blind to obviousness that was in front of him.

This was not a woman with a plan. This was not a sophisticated operation to ensnare him when he was least expecting it. She was winging it just like he was.

The epiphany rung in his ears as if she had shouted it at him. He felt the grip on his gun loosen.

So then there was still a chance they could both come out of this alive. He could still leave. He could give her a fair shake and trust that she wouldn't say a word.

But then there was the same dilemma that started this whole mess. He didn't know how far he would have to walk before he could get to the line. He didn't hear anything out here – no sounds of trucks or heavy equipment or men shouting. It was so quiet part of him worried the Americans had been chased back across the fucking Rhine.

Suddenly he was tired. So very tired. Like he hadn't slept for days. His side flared up again, reminding him that he was still healing. And the cold cut through his bare skin, shaking him with the notion of how compromised he was.

So Caroline was all he had. He had to give her some chance if he wanted to survive this.

Un-fucking-believable.

* * *

He held true to his promise. His paranoia made another unwelcome appearance when that goddamn old woman intruded, but he wrestled it back down. He was trusting her. He did what she said. And, he told himself, she wasn't going to betray him.

That's what he said, until he was down here feeling like a calf ready for slaughter.

The walls closed in on him and he forced himself to take measured breaths through his nose. His gut cycled through his worries again, warning him that she was lying, that she and the old woman probably went to alert the Nazi's that he was sitting down here, waiting for them like an moron.

Remember the bandages. Remember her lies for him when that Schueller jackass visited. He had found his shirts by the kitchen fire just like she said. They were obviously drying there, on a makeshift laundry line, to keep anyone from seeing them. Why would she have done that if she didn't intend to hide him? Why did she clean them in the first place?

Because she is going to help him. Yes, she is going to help him.

He needed a cigarette.

He pulled on his undershirt and uniform shirt, but left the still-wet jacket off. Even if Caroline hatched this plan with pure intentions the risk that he was going to be discovered was high. He needed all the clothing he could get if he was going to have to spend another night in the woods.

The wound felt weird as he got dressed. The pull of the stitches wasn't there, replaced by this strange sensation of fullness. It didn't hurt, but it wasn't comfortable.

His fingers were tugging at the bandage when he heard footsteps above him. He instantly shifted his focus to the cellar door, assuming the best defensive position he could find.

It wasn't fucking Stormtroopers, thank God. Just Caroline and the old lady. The voices filtered through the rafters easily and he could make out their conversation. The friend – Greta? Gretl? - was checking some sort of injury Caroline had. He vaguely remembered her gripping her wrist after Schueller's visit. And then there was whatever made her back soaked with blood.

This friend was obviously the one who put on Caroline's splint. Did she help him too? The old lady seemed oblivious to him being down here.

He looked around the basement. The only sign that anything had happened was a new bottle of antiseptic sitting by his cot. How had Caroline gotten it?

He listened as Caroline murmured some half-ass explanation about not keeping her back wrapped that even he didn't believe. That was another thing – she wasn't very good at lying. Whether with this friend or Schueller, the truth was always lurking in an undercurrent of her voice or a nervousness in her gaze.

It made him inclined to believe her. But it also meant she wasn't the best at covering for him.

He silently let out another breath. A skinny, skittish teenager living in basic poverty out in the fucking boondocks was all that separated him from a painful, violent end.

Fucking hell.

Why the fuck was she in the Party? He had gotten some training on how the Nazi system was set up over in England. It was the elite that were given membership – the rich, the powerful, those who were good propaganda like actors and singers. The only thing she had going for her was that she was Aryan. Other than that there was no purpose for her to have membership. She wasn't someone they could trot out for the cameras.

When he finally heard the old woman leave he moved out of his crouch to go sit on the cot. Now that his adrenaline was spent his legs felt rubbery and when he held out his hands they trembled. He knew he should charge back up there and start getting some information, but he couldn't muster up the strength. The sight of the room swayed slightly as a wave of faintness washed over him. When he swallowed his throat ached. The equipment belt was still on the floor next the cot and he rummaged for his canteen. It was empty.

He jerked when the cellar door opened, but surprisingly it was her voluntarily coming down to him. Her footsteps were light on the ladder and she climbed down using one hand with much more grace than he remembered her having last time. When she reached the bottom her eyes pinned to him but she didn't approach or speak, despite seeking him out on her own free will. She was supposed to hide upstairs, waiting for him to make another appearance like a normal, terrified woman. She didn't know if he still planned on killing her or not. Either she was resigned to her fate or was bargaining that he might have changed his mind.

They watched each other, both wary and cautious, in the orange stove light.

A thousand questions lingered in his mind, but his mouth felt parched. He held out his canteen. She tensed, as if she was expecting him to throw it at her or something.

He clearly had made an impression, just like he had wanted. But right now he needed her to talk, not wet herself, in his presence.

"Do you have any water?" He asked, his voice rasping.

She blinked, as if she had to translate his words even though he was speaking German. Wordlessly, she nodded and approached him, watching him like he was a wild animal that had gotten loose. He didn't move as she cautiously took the tin container from him and dunked it in a bucket by the shelves.

"The water in there is clean," she told him in a faint voice. He didn't respond, taking the canteen from her trembling, outstretched hand and drinking deeply. The water was cold and before he knew it he had drained every last drop. She stared, lingering on the other side of the cellar as far as possible from him.

He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You have any other _friends_ that might be visiting?"

She shook her head.

He found it hard to believe that her only company was a woman forty years her senior. "No family? No husband fighting on the front?" Her finger was bare, but he knew that even wedding rings were sacrificed when money was tight. The last thing he needed was a fucking soldier arriving home unexpectedly for some R&R.

She shook her head again.

"Really? Just you and that old woman... what was her name?"

"Greta," she murmured.

"Right. Just you and Greta? How often does she visit?"

A shrug. "Every now and then. Less lately since she works at the med station."

"She give you that splint?"

Caroline nodded. For how mouthy she was before he passed out he was having a hell of time getting a word out of her now. If he had known he was going to let her live he wouldn't have scared the shit out of her. A sigh deflated him, making his side ache. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Her eyes continued to watch him, not giving away if she believed him or not.

"Did Greta fix me up too?"

She shook her head once more. "I told you. I did."

He waited for her to explain but she didn't offer any other information. He grit his teeth in frustration, trying to not let his temper flare up again.

"Are you a nurse or something?"

"No." She remained tight lipped. At least she didn't fucking shake her head this time.

He rose to his feet and she slunk back towards the ladder, her face paling. He sighed again, but didn't comment as he moved towards the bucket and dunked his canteen. As he crouched, waiting for it to fill, his vision suddenly spun and he reached out to grab one of the shelves and steady himself. There was the soft clink of something hitting the stones and she was suddenly at his side.

"Be careful!" she admonished, her voice finally gaining strength. Without looking at him she scooped the item off the floor and cradled it in her hand. Some sort of jeweled pin.

"Sorry," he replied, the word automatically coming out of his mouth before he could think. He shouldn't be apologizing. He should be telling her to get the hell away from him. He should be threatening her in all sorts of ways to get her to talk.

No, no he wasn't going do that. He was going to try to be civil. She hadn't lied about Greta.

"It's okay," she responded, delicately putting the pin back on the shelf. He saw a cheap watch sitting there too, and a comb. They didn't fit with the utilitarianism of the rest of her things. They were…girly.

As her hand retracted from the pin she froze and he saw her throat swallow. Slowly she stood, turning to face him. He realized then that whatever meaning she had attached to that pin was important enough that she had momentarily forgotten herself.

He decided not to remark on it and moved back to the cot. He took another gulp of water, watching her move back over to the ladder. She chewed on the inside of her cheek and fiddled with the hem of her sweater.

"How long have I been out?"

"About two days."

Two fucking days? It wasn't good that Easy hadn't tried to take the village again.

"You hear anything about what's going on? With the army?"

She stared at him blankly.

"Like gunfire, artillery, or planes? Anything?"

She had shut right the fuck up again. A shiver of irritation climbed up his spine. "Jesus," he sighed. 'Look, Caroline. The more I know the faster I can get together a plan to get out of here and the faster you can forget you ever saw me. You need to answer my questions."

She shook her head. "No. I haven't heard anything." Godammit. "Except –"

"What?" The cot creaked as he leaned forward. She bit her lip.

"Nothing much. I just heard some soldiers talking about the number of causalities the Americans had and that it was going to take them awhile to recover."

He leaned back, not bothering to hide his disappointment. He knew a lot of guys died. He had fucking been there.

"I think we lost a lot of men too. When I was at the aid station-"

"You went to an aid station?" That explained the bandages and antiseptic.

She looked at him cautiously, clearly choosing her words carefully. "Yes, Greta took me there to splint my hand and stitch up my back."

"And you didn't tell anyone-"

This time her answer was lightning fast. "No."

"And they didn't give two shits about you hauling out a bunch of supplies you clearly didn't need?"

She winced, maybe because of his language or because his tone. "They didn't know. I-I stole them."

He stared at her, for once unsure to say. She had stolen a bunch of shit? From the Nazi army? To help him?

She swallowed and her eyes nervously darted to look at her feet. "You were in bad shape. Greta took me there to get me fixed up and… I-"

"How did you know what to do?"

"I had a book and-"

"A fucking book?" He asked, incredulous.

"Yes." She met his gaze, straightening slightly. "And you're still alive, aren't you?"

She thought he was ridiculing her. But it wasn't that. This entire situation, this whole story – it was so improbable that for a second he wondering if he wasn't still in a coma. He expected that – if he was lucky – she wouldn't at least shoot him in his sleep. But no, instead she had stolen medical supplies and patched him up using some sort of textbook like he was a fucking frog to be dissected in biology class.

He dug his palms into his eye sockets.

"I need a cigarette." His hand automatically went to his right pocket, but it was empty.

"I took them," she said delicately, edging closer to the ladder.

He paused in his rummaging. "You what?"

"You can't smoke here. When you did before I could smell it upstairs. I don't smoke. If the place stinks people will get suspicious."

"So I'll fucking do it outside." She winced again and he realized his voice had come out louder than he realized.

"It's too risky. I'll give them back to you when you leave."

She had a lot of fucking nerve despite basically hiding behind the ladder. Throwing a glare at her, he went to his gear belt. Before the battle he had won a pack in a poker game from Marlarky and stashed them with his aid kit.

"I took those too."

He whipped around. "You fucking went through my gear?"

She didn't answer and he felt his hands clench. Fucking Nazi going through his fucking stuff –

"You can't blame me. You're hiding in my cellar. I have a right to know what you are bringing in here." Her words are quick, laced with anxiety.

"Did you steal anything else beside the smokes?" His words are barely audible through his clenched teeth. _Right to fucking know._ Bullshit.

"No."

"Good. Don't you ever touch my shit again, understand?"

Her face was white, but she nodded. He took a deep breath, trying to quell the inclination to finish what he started in the yard. Could she have found anything sensitive? He didn't keep his map on him; there was never any time to pull it out when the bullets were flying so he memorized it before the battle. He had his compass, his flashlight, his aid kit, his rations, extra ammo… no personal letters, no order papers. Nothing she could use against him.

He dropped the belt back on the ground with a _clunk_ and rubbed his forehead. The room spun again and he found the back of knees hitting the cot. He sat heavily, closing his eyes against the nausea that painfully cramped his stomach.

Her presence drifted into his awareness before she spoke again, her voice coming from next to him.

"You need to eat. I'll make dinner. Stay down here and rest."

He didn't want her to go upstairs. He had a million more questions for her. But the words wouldn't form and he heard her softly pad back up the ladder.

Jesus Christ. What the fuck had he gotten himself into?


	14. Chapter 13

**Hello! This is going to be a shorter chapter, but I hope to post again before the end of the week so keep a look out.**

 **Thanks to those who are following, favoring, and reviewing!**

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"So what exactly did you do?"

I rip my eyes from the steaming bowl in his hand to meet his stare. My stomach rumbles as the smell of the soup fills the cellar and I sink further down in my seat against the wall, holding myself so the groans don't travel to his hearing. He watches me expectantly.

"For what?" For a split second I think he is asking how I ended up here and my heart sinks in my chest. He doesn't know that I am not on the farm by choice. There's no way.

"My side. What did you do to fix it?" He eats another spoonful and I follow the movement. It took the can of salt pork and two jars of vegetables, but it should feed him for a couple of days.

"The book said to flush out the infection and give you penicillin, so that's what I did." I leave out how I took a scalpel to his insides and his frightening hallucinations. He still looks perturbed about his cigarettes and I know my standing with him continues to be precarious.

My finger is on my lips and I chew on the nail.

"You took out the stitches then? It feels strange – did you sew it back up?"

I pull my hand away from my mouth. "It needs to stay open for a couple more days. It's filled with antiseptic and gauze right now. I'll need to change it before you go back to sleep."

"Where'd you get the book from?" He continues to interrogate, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. I rub my tired face and sigh.

"I borrowed it from Greta. I told her I was thinking about volunteering at the aid station."

"Are you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

I look at him, judging what he is trying to learn with this line of questions. His figure on the cot is relaxed, but maybe purposefully so. The tension in him is still there, showing in the tightness around his eyes and the harder-than-needed grip on the bowl. He is forcing himself to talk to me, breaking the pattern of cruelty and suspicion marking the last couple of days. Most likely because he knows I am the only source of information about what is going on outside these walls.

It was only a few hours ago that he tried to kill me. I don't know why he's decided to play nice now. When I first came down here I was hanging on the fact that he didn't follow through with shooting both me and Greta in the yard and that he had possibly come to his senses. Hopefully he's realized that his best chance of survival is staying put. He won't ever find out about my shaky deliberations the first night he was here; if anything, he needs to be convinced that I will hide him no matter what.

"I don't have the time," I say neutrally as I get up from the floor. Any other answer would just bring the discussion around to why I was a member of the Party even though I clearly don't even support my side in the war. "Would you like some more soup?"

He goes to give me his empty bowl when his hand stops in midair.

"Aren't you having any?" he asks, brow furrowing.

"I ate earlier." A lie. He needs to eat to regain his strength. I don't want him to ration himself because the supplies are low.

His mouth thins, but he doesn't say anything as I take the dish from him and go up the ladder.

My head aches and I push my hair off my forehead with the splint when I reach the main floor. The sun is fading through the windows, chilling the house as I make my way to the kitchen. The tension down there is wearing. It's a never-ending dance of watchful stares and circumspect thoughts that would be exhausting even if this wasn't the end of the third day of this nightmare.

If I wasn't constantly reminding myself that this is my only chance to atone for the past I would have run off to Greta's ages ago. With as awful as Joseph has been I can't help but wonder if this is some sort of divine intervention to ensure I've earned my forgiveness.

 _There are no second chances, Caroline. I'll be watching._

Pushing back a shiver, I refill the bowl and bank the coals again underneath the pot.

Getting the soup down the ladder the first time wasn't easy with one hand. The second time isn't any better and I grit my teeth when it splashes onto my shirt from the crook of my elbow.

"Give it to me," a voice intones by my ear. I look over to find Joseph standing next to the ladder, still looking pale despite the first helping of food. I freeze at his proximity and he snatches the bowl from my arm, quickly moving away as he stirs it curiously.

"Did you put anything in this?" he asks, his tone unreadable. What did he mean by that?

"Besides pork and vegetables?" I stumble the rest of the way down the ladder.

"You should have some." His voice is off, like he isn't talking about my hunger anymore.

"I told you I already ate." I say as I look at my wet sleeve.

He draws near and holds the bowl out to me, his face expressionless. "I'm not asking."

"What is the problem?" I ask, shaking my arm dry before meeting his gaze. The hardness is back and I swallow with the awareness that something is wrong.

"You're lying."

The implication of his words rings in the air. "You think I've poisoned you?" I can't help the incredulity that creeps into my tone.

His jaw twitches and he pushes the bowl at me. "One spoonful."

A bark of disbelief emerges from my mouth. "After everything that has happened, you think I am going to finish you off with some soup?"

"Just fucking do it," he replies through gritted teeth.

I stare at him, anger bubbling in me despite who I am dealing with. He is being completely irrational. "What if I don't? You've already eaten it. If there was poison in it there is nothing you can do now."

"Then you better hope it acts quickly," he glowers dangerously and my pulse quickens in warning.

"Really? You won't extend me just a little bit of trust?" I counter.

He looks away and takes a deep breath, as if he were controlling himself.

"I followed your plan with your friend. I'm not tying you up. I am trusting you. But I still want you to eat...the...goddamn..soup."

The last words are drawn out and he looks at me again, signaling that my choice in what to do here is limited.

"I've done nothing but help you." My voice drops and I feel the fabric of my skirt clenched between my fingers on my good hand.

"You're still a Nazi," he says with finality.

He had me there and he knew it. That is all I'm ever going to come down to, isn't it? A Nazi to him, a traitor to everyone else.

My chest deflates as the fight in me peters back out into the familiar despair. Silently I snatch the spoon from the bowl in his hand and drain it into my mouth. The taste is hot and savory and my stomach immediately cramps, wanting more.

I hold the spoon out to him. "Happy?" I want to be biting, but my voice only sounds defeated to my ears.

He is silent and takes the spoon from me, finally releasing me from his scrutiny as he moves back over to the cot. Wordlessly he starts eating again, as if our conversation hasn't happened. I give a ragged sigh and go to light the lamp. The glow from the stove is dying and there isn't any more firewood. There is only one lamp for the house, trapping me down here unless I want to sit upstairs in the dark.

We don't speak as the minutes tick by and he finishes the second bowl. I resume my seat against the wall, not bothering to look at him and chewing on my nails.

 _Stop, Caroline. I'm not going to tell you again._

I drop my hand into my lap.

He is not a normal person. Even though we are on opposite sides of the conflict outside, a normal person would recognize the lengths I am going to keep him alive. A normal person would be grateful, or at least try to cooperate for that sake of our mutual survival.

Instead he butts heads with me at every turn, throwing baseless accusations with the abandon of a man who can't appreciate anything that doesn't fit in his worldview. His mind has slapped a title on me and he has ceased to consider anything else to change his opinion. After the three days I have been in his company I can tell he is a person quick to anger and slow to empathize. His obstinate nature and rigid focus are well practiced, as is his harsh demeanor. Whether the pain of the bloodshed that brought him here built such defenses or some other reason I don't know.

What I do know is that although I pity him, I don't like him. He is a ticking time bomb sitting in my cellar, an unwelcome guest who may be my route to Heaven but is unpleasant company all the same. The sooner he heals enough to leave the better.

There is a soft scrape of porcelain as he places the bowl on the ground, tugging me out of my stewing. His eyes catch mine from the cot. I stare expressionlessly back at him.

"Did you say something about needing to change the gauze?" His voice breaks into the stalemate, sounding tired.

I nod and rise to my feet to go back upstairs. He stays on the cot, not saying anything else.

In the darkness I find the wash basket with the dried bandages from the line earlier. I grab a handful and the bucket and slowly make my way back down to the cellar.

He is pulling off his undershirt as I turn towards him and the black shadows brush along his skin as the muscles underneath move. As I approach he leans away, exposing his side to me. His indecipherable gaze is stuck on the wall across from him and doesn't waver in my direction, gratefully. I don't want him looking at me while I'm so close to him, much less talking.

I guardedly sit next to him.

"Is this going to be painful?" The sound of his voice whispers by me and I hold back a sound of exasperation that emerges from the spot inside of me that is still upset with him. It's a valid question, I suppose.

"Probably." The word is clipped. He doesn't seem to notice.

"You still got the whiskey?" Without waiting for an answer he stands goes over to the shelves. The dusty bottle is still there and he rips out the cork. Swigging several deep gulps, he returns and settles back down.

"Okay." He nods towards me, his eyes fixated again on an unknown distant point.

Eyeing him carefully, I start unwrapping his middle. As the gauze unravels around him I lean closer to remove it. He is rigid, moving only to drink more from the bottle.

The area around the gash has withdrawn from an angry red to a slight pink. I pick up the bottle of antiseptic from the floor and try to hold it between my knees to open it with one hand.

"Do you want me to do that?" His words are edged with the fuzziness of alcohol. In seconds he has taken the bottle from me and pops it open. Holding it out for me to take, he finally looks down to me, his eyes blank.

I lick my lips, begrudging that he was trying to help me. Doesn't he realize that just moments ago he was insulting me? Doesn't he know that I have decided that he is unlikable?

"Can you -" I begin, trying to keep my voice level, "pour some on my hand? To clean it?" I spilled most of it last time I tried to maneuver it with the splint. Might as well save the antiseptic if he was offering.

He tips the bottle, letting it dribble onto my hand. Once its covered I shake it dry and take the bottle from him, pouring it into the bucket containing the gauze.

When I turn back his dark gaze is steady on me as he slowly rolls the whiskey bottle between his palms.

I bite the inside of my cheek with trepidation and his eyes flicker to the movement. I'm not a masochist and I don't enjoy inflicting pain on him, regardless of my feelings. "Ready?" I ask, deciding that he should have some warning.

The bottle meets his lips again. "Yeah."

I use the splint to brace myself against his rib cage. With my fingertips I pluck at the fabric bulging from the wound until I can get a good grip. In one smooth pull the gauze comes out, stained pink from the drainage. That's a good sign, I read. Whatever had cut him had gone a couple of inches deep, through the skin but not quite to the muscle. I bend closer, trying to see if there was any more swelling or pus in the dim light. Everything seems clean and healthy.

"How's it look?" He asks, still facing the wall. Although it had only been a few minutes a good portion of the whiskey is gone and his voice is thick.

"Good," I answer shortly, glancing at him again as he takes another drink.

The fresh gauze is thoroughly soaked and I squeeze out the excess antiseptic with my good hand. Holding the bucket still with my feet, I roll up the strips into crude balls. He's only going to drink faster if I warn him again, so with one more glance at him I silently push the first ball into the wound with my fingertips, making sure it reaches as deeply as possible. The fingertips of his right hand dig into his knee while his other hand clamps down on the neck of the bottle. The muscles of his stomach tighten while he takes a sharp breath through his nose. I pause, waiting to see if he will lash out, but he does nothing. His lips remain sealed, not emitting a sound.

As I reach for the second ball I hear him slowly exhale. When I turn back his eyes are closed and it seemed like he was focusing on remaining still. This time there is no reaction when I push the gauze in, nor when I add the third and final wad. He is still as a rock, the faint rising of his shoulders the only sign that he is breathing.

I still don't speak as I wrap his torso with a fresh bandage, not wanting to shatter the tense silence that has fallen in the event his mood has worsened. As I work around him the strain in his limbs slowly releases until the whiskey bottle is hanging loosely in his grasp.

Dumping the dirty gauze into the bucket, I hook it on my bad elbow and grab the lamp. There is nothing left for me to do down here and I find myself needing to get away from him, to take a break and repair my harried mind before we battle again in the morning.

"Go to sleep now," I tell him. He doesn't move or open his eyes. "I'll come and check on you in the morning."

He still doesn't respond and my distant fear that he would make me sleep down here with him eases. I maneuver myself onto the ladder to begin ascending when his voice suddenly reaches me in the dimness.

"Thank you."

My head twists around and I find him looking at me, his gaze steady despite the alcohol. I dumbly look back, not knowing what to say. For once his face is open, free of the anger, fear, and harshness of the last few days. In its place is gratitude. Genuine gratitude. The knowledge throws me and I almost lose the tenuous grip the splint has on the ladder.

"You-you're welcome," I hear myself stutter.

He looks back down on the ground and nods once, seemingly to himself, before moving to lay down. I take my cue, continuing up the ladder and to bed, wondering if I had read him wrong entirely.


	15. Chapter 14

**Look at that! Got another chapter written today! I probably should have just combined this chapter with the last, but I like keeping the two viewpoints separate like this. What do you think? Please review!**

 _Fuck everything_.

The cot creaked underneath him, the grinding of the metal burrowing into his ears to intensify the pounding coming from just behind his forehead.

What time was it? How much of that fucking whiskey did he drink?

Thirst gnawed at him. He reached out, his fingertips gliding along the stone floor until the cold metal of the canteen greeted him. He pulled it to his lips and the water that quenched his aching throat was a small relief.

Dropping the tin, he grabbed the sides of the cot to pull himself up. The feeling that he was going to throw up intensified as he moved upright. Jesus, there were reasons he hardly drank. One was because someone had to make sure no one in the unit got arrested while they were on leave. Another was because he didn't want to become a drunk like his loser of a father.

And finally, he fucking _hated_ being hungover.

At least the cellar was nearly black, saving his eyes. A weak hint of a glow came from the stove and it was barely enough to make out the ladder. The heat had dissipated too and he went for his shirt and jacket, which was thankfully finally dry.

He needed to smoke badly. It would settle both his head and his stomach. His hand was already fishing around his pocket when he remembered Caroline had took them.

Goddammit.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Why did he drink so much?

Oh, that's right. Because _she_ was fucking poking her fingers around inside his abdominal cavity. His hand curled into a fist as the memory of the pain swept through him. It was worse than when he had gotten hit in the first place.

And he had _thanked_ her for it. He didn't know what had come over him.

Scratch that – he knew exactly what happened. Guilt happened. Good old stupid fucking guilt. His irritation now didn't change the fact that last night he felt like an awkward fucking schoolboy. Oh God –

Why did she have to look at him like that? He was merely being cautious. It was weird that she wasn't eating and was lying terribly (again) about it. She should've understood that he wasn't trying to be a jerk. He was merely taking the same measures anyone in his position would take if they were trapped with the enemy.

But she didn't. Instead she looked at him like he had betrayed her in some way. Like he had kicked her puppy and laughed about it. And then she slumped against the wall, not talking or speaking to him, letting her hurt and anger fill the air instead.

So he was left to sit there, ruminating on the fact that he was sitting on _her_ cot in _her_ basement eating the soup _she_ had made for him while _she_ was over there waiting to change the bandages that _she_ had given him to keep him alive even though it was becoming apparent that she found him distasteful.

Ah, shit.

Maybe he could blame the liquor. It certainly loosened the screws in his brain enough that these foreign emotions could exist, let alone come out of his mouth. _Thank you?_ He was losing it. He wasn't the sort of person to feel guilt or remorse or regret or anything that made him second guess himself. The best thing about being an asshole is that there isn't any need to go back over the things that have been done or said. He enjoyed not having to care about what other people made of him. Maybe it got him into a fistfight or two, but it certainly relieved him of the burden of worrying that he hurt anyone's feelings.

Like he was fucking doing right now.

Where would she have hid his smokes? These stupid thoughts were probably because he hadn't had a cigarette in days on top of how shitty the whiskey made him feel. He doubted they were down here.

Groaning, he rose to his feet and stumbled towards the ladder. The house was silent above him. She was probably asleep. His side stung as he moved, but it wasn't anything unbearable. She was doing a good job taking care of it.

Fucking again? She was taking good care of it _for a Nazi_ , of course. He needed to get a grip. Where the hell were his Luckies?

He cautiously lifted up the cellar door, looking through the crack to see if anyone was around. The gray light of dawn was coming through the windows and everything was still. Pushing it open, he hauled himself out onto the floorboards and stood, surveying the room. He had too many things to worry about to care much about this place the night he came here and yesterday he was too busy getting to Caroline to look around either.

The farmhouse was small, even compared to the tiny Brooklyn apartment he grew up in. The front room was as bare as he saw through the darkness three days ago. Two chairs were pushed against the wall next to him, a small table dividing them. There was no rug, nor were there any pictures on the walls. Moving to the front window, he closed the curtains against any passerby inclined to look in, cloaking the room in shadows.

Across the bare floorboards was a doorway leading to the kitchen and he could see what looked like a breakfast table with a couple of chairs. A hallway also branched off to his left, leading to a closed door. Most likely her bedroom.

He made his way to the kitchen. She clearly spent most of her time here, meaning this was probably where his cigarettes were. Unlike the depressing sparseness of the front room, the kitchen was almost cluttered. A hearth dominated the narrow space, its coals red in the still weak morning light. Some sort of pot hung above them and a laundry line was still strung in front of stone facade. He recognized the bowl he ate from last night by the sink basin, as well as the bucket containing the bandages she changed. A washbasin took up most of the floor, along with a jug of what looked to be water. A variety of tins lined the counter, labeled with things like "coffee" and "flour".

He decided to start there with his search. One by one he went through them, his disappointment growing as each proved to be empty of both food and tobacco. Agitated, he pulled open the cabinets. Some contained pots and pans, others had soap and cleaning rags. But no cigarettes.

Sighing, he pulled back the last door. Nothing but some bread and a can of sardines. Shit. Where else could she have hidden them?

Just her bedroom, he guessed. And he wasn't that desperate to wake her up and risk saying something asinine again.

Dropping heavily into a chair at the table, he ran his hand through his hair. How much longer would he have to stay here? She said she was going to sew up his side tomorrow, right? Then there shouldn't be any reason why he couldn't be gone by the next morning. It would be nice to know where exactly his unit was, but as long as his side wasn't going to kill him he could make due. And when he got back the first thing he was going to do is smoke an entire pack.

He guessed he should get back to the safety of the cellar, but it was nice having a break from that hole in the ground. A window hung over the sink, facing the rear yard and the woods beyond. He watched as the sky brightened, illuminating dark clouds gathering in the east that looked like they were heading this way. It was lucky he didn't leave yesterday then. It is probably going to take him a couple of days to get to the line and the last thing he needed was to get soaked.

As he took in the peace and leaned back in the chair, another curious thought took him.

The house was utterly devoid of anything personal. No photographs, no books, no personal touches that should be present in a woman's home. There wasn't even a swastika to be found. The only thing she seemed to remotely care for was that pin downstairs, and given the dust it didn't seem to be used much.

This didn't seem to be a home that someone lived in. In fact, it kind of reminded him of the barracks – featureless space meant to house whoever happened to walk through the door. It was like she was just dropped off here and was surviving until she could be picked up again.

Interesting. She didn't have the rural accent he had come across in other towns either. Her speech was more refined, like she had good schooling as a kid. And social her isolation suggested that she didn't know people around here too well.

He was probably overthinking this. This is what having too much time on his hands did. What did he care? He was going to be gone by this time the day after tomorrow. She can keep whatever story she has and he wouldn't be bothered by her ever again.

Still, it was curious that she was Party member who lived like this. Had she done something wrong? Was this some sort of punishment?

 _Stop it._ He wiped his face. What he wouldn't give for a cigarette right now.

There was a soft creak on the other side of the house and the sound of the bedroom door opening. Oh shit, she was awake. He didn't mean to be found up here. It was probably going to scare her to death, if anything. As the soft sounds of footsteps came down the hall he knew it was too late to try to get back to the cellar. He straightened, but remained seated. His height tended to make him appear threatening regardless of his intentions.

 _What did it matter to him if he startled her,_ his mind muttered.

Goddammit, maybe it just did. If he met her halfway perhaps the last couple days of his stay could go better than the first. It would be best for the sanity of them both, especially if this fucking headache didn't go away soon.

She rounded the corner and didn't see him immediately. Her hair hung in a braid over her shoulder, loose strands falling into her half-open eyes. She was wearing a thin robe that wasn't belted with a wool nightgown underneath that went to her knees –

"What the fuck?"

She jumped, letting out a small yelp. Her back ricocheted off the corner behind her and she hissed, apparently in pain. Pushing her hair out of her face, she gave him a wide stare. "What are you doing up here? Don't you know it's dangerous?"

He didn't respond, his eyes locked on the exposed skin of her legs. Something bad had happened to her. Something really bad. Thick scars puckered her kneecaps, indented like someone had stabbed her repeatedly. Further down her shins were just as marked up, only this time the scars were long slashes. The effect was hideous and gut wrenching. What the fuck had happened?

A soft gasp came from her and a second later she was tying the robe, blocking his view. He blinked and looked to her face, which had gone pale and severe. Suddenly the scolding part of his mind - the part that told him to keep his distance - shut up for a second and all he wanted to do was ask. He wanted to know the entire story of why she was in this cold, depressing house with nothing but an old woman and silence to keep her company. He wanted to know why she was sticking her neck out for him. He wanted to know if those scars had anything to do with why she was a Nazi.

"I-"she started before gulping, her blue eyes drilling into his. "Excuse me."

The words were barely spoken before she spun around and disappeared down the hall, the bedroom door slamming shortly thereafter.

He stared after her, his mind turning. This was not expected. He had imagined a thousand things about her since he came here. She was a loyal Nazi. She was going to betray him at every turn. She was going to murder him in his sleep. But this was not something he even remotely thought about. Was it Schueller's doing? The marks looked several years old. Was he right about her being punished in some way?

His headache reared up inside his head and he rubbed his eyes.

What was he doing? He was leaving in two days. What happened to her is of little consequence to him and not worth wasting this brainpower on. He should be focusing instead on his strategy for getting back to the line.

He moved his hand away from his face as footsteps came towards the kitchen again. She appeared, dressed with black stockings covering her legs, and went over to the hearth without meeting his gaze.

"Are you hungry?" Her voice was deliberately level.

She wasn't going to volunteer any information, and he was going to be damned if he asked.

"Yes," he replied, looking at her stiff back. She nodded and went to stir the coals.

It was none of his fucking business. When did he ever care about anyone besides himself and the guys in his unit? Never, that's when.

And he wasn't going to fucking start now.


	16. Chapter 15-Rewritten

**So the chapter I posted on Monday was utter crap. Life has been hectic lately, effecting my usual rewriting and editing routine. So I've done some work and, while I'm not completely satisfied, hope this is better than that pile of dog poo I wrote earlier. Apologies!**

 **I always appreciate constructive criticism!**

* * *

The waiting is killing me. I chew on my lip, staring at him across the table. He's silently devouring the rest of the soup and I am supposed to be eating the bread. But despite the hunger tugging at my stomach the bread is ending up torn into little pieces on the table, victim of my nervous fingertips.

He shouldn't have seen them. I should have kept my guard up. I should have known that he wouldn't stay in the basement. I should have made sure I was decent before I left my room.

The regrets are racking up with every tick of time that passes. Now I am left waiting for him to finally start talking. To finally ask the questions that I know have been on his mind since we met.

When is he going to start? When is he going to try to find out? Can he tell when I lie? If he knows I am not being honest with him it will only dig the hole that I'm in even deeper. But Heaven help me if he finds out the truth.

I would bury my face in my hands if my eyes weren't riveted to him, watching for the signal that it's about to begin.

He leans back in his chair. Anticipation crackles in the space between us and the bread disintegrates in my hand.

"Aren't you going to eat that?"

This isn't the question I am waiting for. He's taking his time, oblivious to my suffering. He doesn't care what I eat. It's only to soften me up, to make me at ease before the real questions start. This isn't my first interrogation.

I don't bother answering and shove a piece in my mouth to appease him. It tastes stale. His expression still doesn't change. _Get on with it already._

"Is that all you're having? Do you want some of this?" He gestures to the soup.

More stalling. I shake my head, still not speaking. If he wants to know something about me he is going to have to spit it out. I'm not giving away anything without a fight. He doesn't deserve to hear the tale of how I got these scars. Although the tension filling the house has ebbed over the past day the fact remains that he will be leaving soon and there is no reason for him to know anything else about me. To engage in any sort of truth-telling would just be fueling his licentious curiosity.

Not to mention he still thinks of me as a Nazi. The story would just prove him right and the chances of us ever reaching a point of cordiality with each other will be annihilated.

He raises an eyebrow but goes back to eating. Why won't he just get it over with? The sooner he asks the sooner I can head him off and relax. I mindlessly shove another piece of bread in my mouth if only to give myself something to do.

By the time he finishes my anxiety is about to make me explode. He goes to stand and I leap up too, my legs contracting with pent up energy. He looks at me again but doesn't comment as he goes to put his bowl by the sink.

When he turns back a distasteful look has emerged on his face and I brace myself. I know what I am going to say: _None of your busi –_

"Is there a way I could wash? They are going to be able smell me out at the road soon."

 _…what?_ I stare at him. He wants to take a bath?

"You want to wash?" I parrot dumbly.

His eyebrow rises again. "Yeah, you know, some water and soap?"

I blink rapidly. This is ridiculous. It's clear from his reaction that the he was startled by the sight of my legs. Either he is wanting to pretend he saw nothing or this is some absurd game and I'm going to have a heart attack if it continues on any longer.

"Why don't you just ask?" I blurt out. My mouth snaps shut and I want to grab those words out of the air before they reach him. Way to play it on the nose, Caroline.

"Ask what?" He goads, not moving from the sink. His face hides whatever he's thinking.

"You know what." A weak attempt to regain the upper hand. Might as well just spill the beans now, Caroline, and prepare for the consequences.

He shifts to lean against the counter, arms crossed. "If you are referring to what I saw, I'm assuming it's not a pleasant story. But it is a story that nonetheless has nothing to do with me. Unless something is going to threaten our safety before I leave in a couple of days I'm not interested. It's for the best that we keep our distance. Don't forget we are going to go back to being enemies once as soon as I walk out the door."

His speech is given in a cool, detached voice. I grip the back of my chair, the strain in my stomach loosening as I take in his dismissal of my worries. I let out the breath I had been holding. There aren't going to be any questions. He simply doesn't care.

Still, something is bothersome, something in the way he stands and his careful tone of voice -

The walls which crumbled last night are now firmly back in place. Of course. The human being I saw is again safely stowed away in a spot deep inside him and far from my reach. I shouldn't have expect his attitude to be any different in the light of this morning than it had since he came here. He drank enough whiskey that he might not even remember what had happened.

Fine. He can go back to being a unapproachable curmudgeon. At least he's not tying me up again. At least I don't have to worry about getting shot for leaving his sight.

I square my shoulders. "Very well."

He nods and pushes himself away from the counter. "What about that bath?" He asks, his voice still stiff and his eyes still carefully blank.

"I don't have any firewood. There's no hot water. Once my hand gets a little better I can chop some, but right now the water is going to be cold."

"I'm used to it," he answers, still standing expectantly.

"Okay. We need to get this downstairs." I finally break his steady gaze and go to grab the wash basin in front of the fireplace. He silently picks up the other end and we move towards the front room.

At least we tacitly agree that personal information is off limits. It would be foolish to try to get close to him, to become friendly when all he is going to do is leave and go back to killing my countrymen. When if he knew who I really was he would probably see to it that I got what is coming to me. Maybe I'm imagining the increasing familiarity I feel between us. Maybe he hates me just as much now as he did the night I found him. Maybe he still is concerned that I will talk and is plotting to silence me forever. My situation here leaves me ripe to seeking companionship in the wrong places. Isolation does funny things to a person. Even Greta's occasional visits aren't enough the stop eternal silence of this place from getting to me, from working its way into my brain and warping me until I crave any human contact, even that of a man like Joseph.

 _Do you know why you're here, Caroline?_

 _No, sir._

 _Well, let me show you exactly why._

"Caroline?"

My eyes clear and I see Joseph looking at me as we stand over the opening. Wordlessly I turn to start down the ladder, not acknowledging him while I try to gain control of _his_ voice before it gets too loud.

I've already had everything and everyone ripped away from me once. Befriending Greta was enough of a risk. Looking at adding anyone else to my circle is just inviting disaster again.

And honestly, the torturous limbo of this farmhouse isn't even the beginning of the punishment I really deserve for the things I've done.

 _Show us your loyalty. Pull the trigger._

I bite my cheek hard, using the pain to shut _him_ up. The sour taste of blood oozes across tongue and my stomach turns. As soon as we set the basin on the floor I go to scurry back up. I need air. I need to get away from him and his all-too-seeing stare, which is still leveled on my face. "I'll bring down water."

He remains quiet below me as I reach the main level and grab the bucket before bursting through the back door. The air outside is humid for March, the wind wet and heavy. The storm clouds are getting closer. I lean against the house for a moment, letting the heavy weight on my chest dissipate in the quiet.

 _I will break you. That is the only way you can be reborn. You must be demolished first. Become less than human._

I heave myself away from the wall, stumbling towards the pump. The first liter of water that spews from the nozzle is muddy brown. There must be a break in the line. I dump it and try again, focusing on pushing the lever and away from my treacherous brain. After a few more bucketfuls the water finally runs clear and sloshes on me as I pick it up to lug it back down to the cellar.

"You can't get that down the ladder with one hand. Give it to me."

I halt inside the door, narrowly avoiding Joseph's chest as he stands to block my way. His dark eyes are undecipherable as he holds out his hand.

Without comment I hand the bucket over and he takes it to the cellar, returning a minute later with it empty.

Taking it back, I return to the water pump, leaving him in the shadows inside the house. Filling it again, I walk it to the door where he immediately grabs it, taking it across the kitchen and to the front room. He doesn't say anything else and I don't try to talk and break the silence that surprisingly isn't uncomfortable.

We repeat our little bucket brigade five times until the basin is mostly full. Coming up the ladder one last time, he sits the bucket on the kitchen floor.

"Where is the soap?"

The box is in the cabinet below the sink basin and I yank it out, realizing at the last second that it's empty. I must have used the last of it during my chores.

He runs a hand through his hair as he sees the weightless box. "You don't have soap?" he asks, barely hiding his exasperation. "Do we need to haul the water back out?"

I chew on my lip. "I might be able to get some." My pocketbook sits on the table and I pull it open, checking my ration cards. I have one left for household supplies. I can go get a box if he lets me leave.

I turn to him, holding out the card. "I have the ration stamp to get a box, but I'll have to go to the shop in the village."

He works his jaw, starting at the card. "It's what, two or three kilometers away?"

"Yes. To get there and back will take me maybe two hours."

His hands go to his hips as he appears to think. I know what he is considering.

My eyes drift to the card in my hand. The swastika across the top dominates the page.

"You're safe with me, Joseph. I'm just going to get soap," I murmur, drawing my gaze up again to find his brown eyes drilling into me. I let him look at me, not flinching.

Finally he gives a small nod. "Okay."

"Thank you," I say, heading to the door. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

He heads over to the cellar opening, not saying anything else before sliding back into the blackness and tugging the door closed behind him.

The road to the village is rough and uneven, marked by the evidence of the American's attempt to take it. I pick my way through the craters, trying to keep my pace up. The morning is dim as the first few fat storm clouds roll overhead. Distant grumbles of thunder shake the air forebodingly. But yet the countryside itself is quiet, almost unnervingly so. An ominous blanket of silence that hangs over the rolling hills. Usually by this time the farmers would be out preparing the ground for the first planting. But now there is no one, not even on the road. Only a few lines of military vehicles pass, all heading south. The men inside don't spare me a second glance.

The sun doesn't break free until I am cresting the final hill above the village. It illuminates the valley, bouncing off the settlement that until just a few days ago had been pristine. But then the war came and destroyed everything, including the broken and unrecognizable cluster of buildings blighting the landscape in front of me. I find myself slowing, taking in the sight that before I had only seen through pictures in the newspaper of other towns in other, far away places. The aftermath of the wholesale destruction of battle. Greta said the village was in pieces, but this is worse than I imagined. Most of the shops and homes are now just piles of rubble. The streets have been cleared, but mountains of bricks and remnants of building rise above either side. The people, usually bustling from place to place, mill out in the open among the carnage, idle to anything but trying to comprehend what has happened to their homes.

It was like someone tried to wipe the village off the map but only succeeded in crushing it, leaving pieces scattered carelessly around the brown, dead fields. I feel my jaw drop open at the spectacle.

On the far edge sits the school, one of the few structures still standing. The imposing stone building is surrounded by army trucks and motorcycles. Men in uniform gather in groups at the doorway. Before the war made its way here the school was Schueller's headquarters. During the purges more than one person went in there and never walked out again. Now it seems the army has supplanted him, for better or worse.

 _Those who betray the Fuhrer deserve nothing. Not even an easy death._

A loud honk sounds behind me and I leap aside, letting another troop truck pass. This one is empty of anyone but the driver, who glares at me as he goes by. Biting at my fingernail, I slowly start my descent into the town.

The smell of gunpowder and dust still lingers in the air, edged by a faint odor of rot coming from under some of the piles of rubble. People who were trapped as their shelters collapsed on top of them, entombing them for a suffocating death. I pass groups lining up in front of these piles, slowly picking them apart brick by brick to reach the corpses trapped inside.

My fingernail is bleeding again. I keep chewing.

The loss of landmarks is disorienting and I almost pass the shop before realizing it. The store itself is still standing, luckily. The building to its left is missing all of its windows and the one to the right in nothing but a collection of bricks and plaster, but amazing the business is open. A black splatter of what appears to be dried blood marks the stone entryway and the glass door is marred by a collection of bullet holes.

The bell is broken and the door silently opens to expose the dark and bare interior. I spy the shopkeeper standing behind the counter, talking in low tones to another man. Neither turn my way and continue with their hushed conversation.

There is no food. The shelves are empty, clearly picked over before the battle tore everything apart. I make my way to household goods the back, where a single oil lamp replaces the dead electric lights. Three boxes of the soap are left. Figures. No point in cleaning a pile of debris.

As I make my way up to the front a newspaper stand catches my eye.

 _FUHRER PREPARES FOR FINAL VICTORY_

It's an issue from Berlin, but a few days old and covered in dust. I have a few coins on me and it was only one Reichmark, much less than the usual five. I pull it out of the basket to see if there is anything written that might help Joseph.

"..I've asked what is going on but Schueller keeps giving me the runaround. I've already sent the kids to my sister's in Berlin. I've told him to give me a heads up if there is another retreat, but he keeps saying there won't be one."

My ears perk up as the shopkeeper's whispered conversation reaches me.

"Now I'm not saying that we won't win. But I don't want to be one of the ones left behind for the Americans if it comes down to it. I mean, look at what they did to this place. Do you think they are going to show us any mercy?"

"I heard they burned Obserstorf to the ground and killed anyone left alive."

"That's what I mean. If you were smart you'd get ready to leave on short notice too."

"Have you had any luck getting anything for the store?"

"No. Schueller says the military isn't having much better time of it. I've heard talk about the army running out of bullets, food, and-"

The conversation stops and I feel the eyes burn into the back of my head.

"What are you doing here, Caroline?" the shopkeeper calls out, clearly dismayed.

I turn and approach the counter, meeting the cold stare he is giving me. "I need to buy some soap and this." I wave the newspaper.

"You better have a stamp. I'm not giving it to you if you are going to ask."

"I do." I pull the ration card out of my pocketbook, juggling the soap and newspaper with the splint. I tear off the stamp and hand it to him along with my Reichmark coin. He snatches them from my hand, eyeing me as he writes out a receipt.

"You didn't hear what we were saying, did you?" he asks, menace lacing his tone.

"Not a word," I lie.

"Good. See to it that it stays that way." He tosses me the receipt. "And get out."

I catch the piece of paper and make my way to the door, familiar with his hostility. Behind me the conversation picks up again, this time intentionally louder.

"She is probably hoping the Americans win. Would probably greet them with open arms and open –"

I slam the door shut, cutting off the end of the insult, and make my way back the way I came.

He's right in that maybe I wouldn't mind the Americans winning. Joseph is not very pleasant, but he seems to be a more decent person than these people. He's certainly giving more of a chance than anyone here ever did besides Greta. I have heard the stories of what the Americans are doing to Germans to the south and even more about the atrocities the Soviets are committing in the east. I'm not sure what to believe. Joseph seems like the type who would kill an enemy soldier by cutting his throat. Lining civilians up against a wall and shooting them? Not so much.

The only thing I do know for sure is that no one is getting out of this with clean hands. Including me.

The journey back is just as quiet. The sun's battle with the clouds is lost and the sky dissolves into gray. The smell of rain comes strong on the wind and I move faster. As I come up on the bend before my home a low growl hums through the bushes blocking the view of my house. A motorcar engine.

My steps falter. The engine isn't engaged; the car is idling. Oh no.

I shoot around the bend, my eyes taking in a vision that had before only been in my nightmares.

A black Mercedes, Nazi flags perched above the headlights. Three soldiers loitering in the yard.

And a painfully familiar blond man leaning against the gate, his black uniform spotless.

He sees me immediately, his handsome face stretching into a smile.

My heart goes cold instantly. Ice floods my veins, rooting me to the spot.

"Hello again, Caroline."


	17. Chapter 16

**Happy Labor Day weekend! A bit of a warning on this chapter - it is a little intense. Not in a smut way, but there is more violence than usual. And to make up for the crappy chapter last week this one is extra long! I have a cold at the moment and was under the influence of cold medicine when I wrote most of it, so hopefully it isn't too angsty :)**

* * *

The barn hadn't been used in some time. The distant smell animals long since gone lingered in the air and the tools propped along the wall were rusted from disuse. He buried himself deeper in the dry straw to hide, his ears straining to hear the faint words coming from the front.

"What, no greeting for your long lost fiancé?"

 _Fiancé_. He didn't hear Caroline's response. He didn't need to. He asked her if anyone else would be coming and she said no. She looked him in the eye and said no.

She lied. She was engaged to a fucking SS officer and lied.

He was going to kill them both.

This is what trusting her had gotten him. He just barely made it out of the house in time. As soon as he heard the motorcar slow at the gate he slapped his gear on. Letting her go was the biggest mistake he made and part of him had been waiting for the sound of the Germans coming for him. Why she didn't tell anyone before now he didn't know. But that didn't matter anymore. The goddamn SS were here – her fucking _fiancé_ was here – and he needed to get as far away as possible.

The front curtains were still closed, so when the banging on the front door started he was able to slip out of the cellar unseen. Unfortunately he had only just eased the back door shut when he heard footsteps coming around the side of the house. The barn was the closest shelter and he dived into it, swinging the door closed just as a soldier came around the corner, an MP 28 slung over his shoulder. The slats of the barn were dried and weather beaten, leaving gaps between the planks for him to peer through. The soldier tried the back door and, finding it unlocked, entered the house. Moments later he heard the front door open and the sound of boots pounding inside. He couldn't tell how many men were here for him. It was surprising that they knocked first. Why give him warning?

He looked to the woods. If they stayed inside he could maybe make it. It would be maybe a thirty foot sprint out in the open, but his choices were limited. It would be a matter of time before they searched the barn. Once they didn't find him in the cellar they would know he would have to be nearby.

His hand was on the door latch when another figure stepped out of the back door, coolly lighting a cigarette while something crashed inside. Joe could tell from the casual air about him and the straight set of his shoulders that this was probably the man in charge. The soldier with the MP 28 exited as well to stand beside the officer.

"Go get the report on her whereabouts," the blonde man ordered in-between puffs. The soldier nodded and set off to the road, going south.

The officer slowly finished his cigarette while scanning the yard. Joe pulled back from his peering spot, hiding from the man's gaze in the shadows. The hay softly cracked underneath him, but the SS officer did not appear to hear. Stilling, Joe pointed his rifle at the door. This was a poorly defensible position and they would probably tear the barn to shreds with their sub-machine guns once he got a shot off, but at least he would get the officer before they finished him. Sitting there in the itchy hay, waiting, he felt the adrenaline subside. His breathing slowed. His heartbeat slowed. Everything stilled under the familiar iciness welling up and calming him as the unescapable conclusion to his journey in Europe circled around him with every step the officer's perfectly shined boots made outside. He had a good run of it. He had done his part. But now he couldn't avoid the Reaper any longer and it was coming to gather him just like all the others.

All because fucking Caroline had betrayed him.

He didn't blink. He didn't swallow. He was ready for it.

But then the minutes ticked by. The rifle began to weigh on him, his arms tiring from holding its weight while he still was not up to full strength. He waited, but the moment never came. The door wasn't ripped open. There weren't any shouted orders to search the woods for him. He could no longer see what the men were doing and eventually the voices reached him again.

"She was shopping in the village. She left about twenty minutes ago, coming in this direction."

"Then we wait."

There were more footsteps and two shadows went around the side of the house.

Joe slowly felt the knot of confusion tightening in his chest. Why weren't they searching? Why weren't they talking about him? Why were they waiting for her?

Perhaps they wanted her to point him out. Maybe she hadn't given them all of the information and they wanted to have her explain what they should be looking for.

But none of that made sense. Why hadn't she come with them? Why was she still shopping in the village for soap he wasn't going to need? There is no reason why she wouldn't have told them everything. It's not like there is much to say. _'An injured American soldier is in my cellar. He answers to Joseph'_ about covers it.

His headache, which had just about disappeared, grinded through his skull again. And that only intensified when he heard that she was fucking engaged to this officer. He felt like a goddamn fool for believing her, for allowing them to get so familiar with one another. He should have kept her tied to the stove. Hell, maybe he should have shot her on the road the first time he saw her.

 _And then where would he be? Dead in the woods from exposure? Admit it, they don't seem to be searching for him. Maybe she has kept her end of the bargain._ Son of a fucking bitch. Where the fuck had this annoying part of his conscious come from? He wanted to punch something.

The fact remains that she lied about having anyone else visit. He knew next to nothing about her, and what little tidbits of information he was getting just made things all the more bewildering. If he were smart he would have taken her up on her offer to talk this morning instead of shutting her down with his little proclamation that he didn't care. It was a foolish kneejerk reaction, made after he realized that what caused those scars concerned him more than it should. That he found himself surreptitiously watching her while they ate, noting that the slice of bread was the only thing beside a spoonful of soup he had seen her eat since his arrival and hating himself for caring about it.

So he did what he knew best. He retreated, erecting barriers behind him, until there was nothing but his aloofness left to keep her at bay. And it worked. She kept her distance, just like he wanted. Just like the dames at the Red Cross clubs and the Dutch civilians who tried to thank him after the liberation and the other soldiers besides the core group from Toccoa.

Only this time instead of feeling safe and peaceful in his self-imposed isolation he just felt… lonely.

He clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth cracked.

"You went into my house?" The sound of Caroline's voice drifted through the open back door and he stiffened, crawling back to where he could see what was going on. Inside the doorway it was too dark to make out much, but a small part of him took comfort that her voice seemed dazed and scared – the opposite of what it should be if she had conspired against him.

"Of course, _my sweeting_. You so rarely leave that when there was no answer I became afraid that something had happened to you and I had to check. You are right on the front line, you know."

"And you didn't –" she stopped, catching herself. "Why did you do this to my things?"

"They aren't really _your_ things, are they dear? I have been waiting for you to come to your senses and join me in Berlin, but it seems you prefer living in this shack with this _Judenscheisse."_

 _Judenscheisse?_ It was some sort of slang he wasn't familiar with. It didn't sound complementary.

"So you think destroying my home will convince me? You were always dense, Henrich."

A bark of laughter emerged, but it wasn't jovial. "And you were always a sanctimonious _bitch_ , weren't you Caroline?"

Joe started as he took in the turn of the conversation. What the fuck sort of fiancé was this guy?

"But I did find something interesting in here. Where did all this bloody gauze come from? Have you been hurt _sweetheart_?"

Every affectionate epithet he pronounced sounded more like an insult.

"Since when have you cared?"

"Always, _my dear_ , always. I read all of Schueller's reports about you." Reports? What reports?

"Then I assume you already know everything then."

Another joyless laugh. "Careful, Caroline. I'm beginning to think you don't like me being here."

"I don't. Why are you, anyway? A little close to the action, aren't you? You might get your uniform dirty."

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Sir!" one of the soldiers barked. "The doctor wishes for her to be unblemished for the photographs, sir."

Another pause, the air inside the house still with tension.

"Very well." Henrich's voice was a smooth and cool as ever. "Consider yourself lucky, Caroline. I won't be so generous of your attitude when we are married."

"That's never going to happen, Henrich."

"Never say never, _doll_. It wouldn't be the first promise you've broken."

"Well," Caroline replied, her voice cold with vehemence, "all I've got to do is wait you out, don't I? That'll only be a few more weeks. Then the Americans will solve my problems for me, won't they?"

Joe's breath caught at her declaration. She hoped the Americans would win? Even though her actions thus far clearly told him that she was pragmatic about the direction the war was going, deep down he still waffled on why she was helping him. His cynical side told him it was because she was trying to store some good will for when his unit finally did take the village. His more practical side told him it was because she was afraid of him, meaning she only helped him because he ordered her to and that it would get him out of her life as quickly as possible. Then there was the suspicious part that wondered if she was using him to advance her standing in the Party, whether by turning him in or leveraging him for some sort of gain.

Helping him because she wanted the Americans to win? That was last on the list. And it certainly wasn't something she should be telling an SS officer. Even he knew that.

The sound of footsteps stomping on the floorboards sounded and seconds later the officer appeared at the back door, dragging Caroline behind him, his grasp tight on her upper arm. Three soldiers followed silently behind them, one holding a camera. Caroline's expression was a mixture of anger and dread and he felt his fingertips dig into the stock of his rifle.

"The doctor wants some good propaganda, Caroline." The false humor was gone from Henrich's voice and his words were hissed through his teeth. "He wants to show how hard you are working out here for the _Mutterland_. So let's get some dirt on you to make it seem so, right?" With this he tossed her forward and she landed on her side in the mud by the water pump. Shined boots flashing in the weak light streaming through the heavy clouds overhead, he followed her and pulled her to her feet. "I'm sure if the Americans get here they will love finding Goebbel's Golden Girl right at their fingertips. You really think they are just going to wave you by? No, my dear. Whatever they do to you is going to be a nightmare compared to me."

He threw her again, this time towards the barn. She hit the ground with an _oomph_ on her back, feet from him. He shifted, moving to get a better look at her, and her eyes immediately darted towards the gap he was staring through. Her face paled and he knew that she saw him.

Staring at her, he also realized that he knew that she didn't have anything to do with these men being here. And that this so-called engagement was completely one-sided. As to why this was happening, though, he was in the fucking dark.

The officer moved to pick her up again and Joe felt himself tense. The soldiers would be easy to pick off. He could get the first two before they realized what was happening. The one with the camera wouldn't have enough time to grab his weapon before Joe took care of him too.

It was this asshole that was the problem. If he moved away from Caroline there was a chance Joe could engage without her getting caught in the crossfire. As it was, if Henrich didn't let go of her he could easily turn her into a hostage or human shield. Not to mention the sound of a gunfight would draw every soldier for miles.

So he was powerless but to sit and watch as the officer pulled Caroline up to stand, roughly wiping the dirt off her face with a gloved hand. "There you go. Now we are ready to take some pictures."

"Anything to get you to leave," Caroline told him. But her voice was shaky, the brave hostility gone. She cast a sideways glance at his hiding spot and Joe gathered that she was surprised to see him. She must have thought he had left when she found the house empty of him and the soldiers unaware. She was being reckless with Henrich because she thought she had nothing to lose.

Something moved uncomfortably inside him at the thought of _him_ being something to lose for her.

He watched as the soldier holding the camera directed them into poses. Most were the usual, looking-fearsomely-into-the-distance sort he saw on all the propaganda posters, even in America. A few involved chaste kisses on the cheek and hand holding that looked like they belonged in the brightly colored magazines he remembered girls giggling over in school. Throughout it all Caroline was silent for the most part, following the directions without comment even as Henrich continued his snide remarks. She didn't try looking at him again.

"Now why don't we go in the barn and get some of you forking hay? Working the land and what not?"

Joe's heart dropped. _Shit._ Should he open fire when they entered? Would Caroline have enough sense to stay out of the way? He swung his rifle towards the door as Henrich approached. At least that bastard would go first.

"I can't use the fork with my splint. How about the garden? I could pose with the hoe." Caroline quickly interjected.

The photographer swung around, considering the plot of land. Henrich stopped. "Yeah, that'll work. The light is better over there anyway."

"Ok, I'll get the hoe." Caroline slowly walked to the door, watching over her shoulder as the others headed to the side of the house. He rose to his feet as she pulled the latch open, ready to hear if she had any plan. It was too risky for him to get to the woods now, especially since it meant leaving her behind to answer for his existence if he were seen. And he had no doubt Henrich wouldn't show any mercy in asking his questions.

Keeping an eye on the men, she slid into the barn, pulling the door closed behind her. In the dim, dust filled air he could see that her face was streaked with dirt and mud splattered up her neck into her hair.

Henrich was an asshole. Maybe Joe would get the chance to meet him on the battlefield. Then he could know what it felt like to be thrown around a bit. That would be a lucky fucking day.

She held a finger up to her lips, signaling him to be quiet. "No matter what happens, stay in here," she whispered.

 _No matter what happens?_ What was the hell that supposed to mean?

She stepped closer, grabbing the hoe that rested on the wall next to him. "I can keep them away from here. Just don't do anything stupid, okay?"

He wanted to know what the fuck was going to happen that was going to make him act stupid, but she didn't give him a chance. Turning away from him, she slipped back out the door without another word. Through the cracks he watched her make her way over the men. "These are going to be the last photos, right?"

"Sick of me already _darling_?" Henrich sneered. "I'd hate to be in the way of your busy schedule."

If Caroline responded he didn't hear it. Soon there were more poses and more photographs. Caroline standing next to the hoe. Caroline digging the hoe into the ground, angled so the splint was hidden. Henrich standing next to Caroline, his bemused smile at odds with the hate coming out of his mouth between every click of the shutter.

Finally the weather brought the dragging proceedings to a halt. The photographer, looking to the sky, mumbled something about getting the negatives wet and began packing up the equipment. Joe's muscles ached from laying poised for so long and through his peep hole he could see that Caroline was pale and weary.

"A pleasure as always, _sweetheart_ ," Henrich's thick fallaciousness was back and Caroline tensed as an arm was thrown around her shoulders. "Wait for me at the car," he called to the soldiers, who obediently disappeared around to the front. Henrich motored Caroline back around and began walking her towards the barn. Joe could see her face lose the last of its color and her knuckles were white on the handle of the hoe. A sick feeling swirled in his gut as Henrich's eyes swept over her, lingering on places far longer than what was polite. The _no matter what happens_ might be just about to happen and he felt a sour burning creeping up the back of his throat.

"Now how about a proper welcome for your soon-to-be-husband?" Henrich pulled her into him, crushing her against his side. "A kiss for a fighting man, as the Americans say?"

"Stop it. I've told you a thousand times that I'm not marrying you." Caroline pushed against him, but he only held her closer, letting out a loud laugh.

"That's what you think, baby. The doctor is running out of patience. You've had your time out here with these backwards people and this piece of shit farmhouse. He is going to want a decision from you soon, and you and I both know what it's going to be."

"Do you really think any of this is going to happen?" Caroline snapped. "Do you not know that the American's have invaded Germany? Do you not realize that we are losing?"

Henrich's eyes narrowed and he yanked her around until her back was to Joe and her shoulders were being crushed under his grip.

"Even after all these years you are still just a stupid child. You are lucky I'm the only one to hear your blasphemy. I'll have you know that the Fuhrer has a plan to win the war. He's putting it into action as we speak. The Americans and the Soviets will be defeated by summer and we will be married by the fall."

Caroline was the one to laugh this time, the sound high-pitched and frantic. "I'm the one who's stupid? Open your eyes, Henrich. We have been retreating for months. Germany is never going to win this war and you are never going to marry me."

The entire barn shook as he slammed her back against the door, his face going red. Joe chewed on the inside of his cheek. _Don't do anything stupid._

"I should shoot you right here for your treason."

"You can't and you know it."

"But I guess there's one thing true, isn't there?"

"What?"

"The photographs are done and now there's no reason to not teach you a lesson."

Before either she or Joe could react his fist connected with her cheek and her head snapped to the side. Joe found himself moving forward, stopping just before he reached the latch. Fucking Christ, he couldn't kill this guy without the others coming running. He could grab Caroline and make a break for it, but even in the barn he could see the fat raindrops beginning to dot the ground outside. They would get hypothermia if they tried to get back to the line.

But he couldn't fucking stand here and watch _this_.

Caroline's head lolled back around and Henrich captured her chin. "Now why don't you show me the affection a fiancé deserves?" he spit out before crashing his mouth into hers. A small whimper reached Joe's ears and he saw Caroline struggle and fail to break free. Henrich was ruthless, pawing at her clothes and yanking up her skirt while his lips remained on hers with bruising force.

"Fuck this," Joe felt himself hiss, grabbing the latch. This might be suicidal, but at least he would be doing _something_ rather than standing by and letting this son of a bitch have his way with her.

" _Oww_ – you fucking bitch!" Joe froze just before lifting the latch, watching as Henrich reared back, a trickle of blood racing down his chin. "You fucking _bit_ me!"

"The doctor told you to leave me alone while I was out here!" Caroline screamed at him, her face a blanket of fury. "You are just supposed to take some pictures and _leave_!"

"Really? You certainly had no trouble putting out before, Caroline. You think you are some sort of nun now? A roll in the hay might be just the thing you need." He lunged at her again and Joe lost sight of who was who in the tangle against the barn wall. There was a rip of fabric followed by a dull _thwack_.

A loud keel of pain rent the air and seconds later the three soldiers came running around the corner. Joe's heart stilled in his chest and he desperately moved around the slats, trying to get an angle of what was going on.

Henrich was kneeled on the dirt, curling in on himself as his limbs went stiff with pain. The handle of the hoe stood straight before him and Joe followed it down until he saw the blade buried deep in the top of one of Henrich's shiny, spotless boots. A puddle of maroon blood was already joining the raindrops on the dirt. Caroline stood, her back still against the barn, and Joe swallowed the lump of relief in his throat. He moved over to the planks she was leaning on, his lips in the crack by her ear.

"Good job," he whispered. She gave a microscopic nod of acknowledgment, still watching the men before her. He saw the sweat bead on her neck and her shoulders tremble with either anticipation or fear.

"I'm going to _fucking kill you_!" Henrich bellowed, grasping the hoe with both hands. With another anguished cry he yanked the blade free and slowly stood. The cool commanding officer was gone, replaced by a red-faced, bloody maniac.

Caroline went to run, but Henrich moved surprisingly fast for nearly having his foot severed. He caught her and threw her back, landing a blow to her stomach. She doubled over and he gave another strike to her side, causing to crumple to the ground. _Oh no_. Joe went to the latch again. Maybe he could shoot the other three first–

"Sir!" The soldier with the MP 28 ran forward, placing a restraining hand on Henrich's shoulder. "The doctor said we were not to –"

"I know what he fucking said!" raged Henrich, rounding on the man. "Go get the fucking car started!"

The man paled and nodded before disappearing. A minute later the loud roar of the Mercedes engine bounced through the yard.

Henrich stared down at Caroline, who lay motionless on the ground except for the frantic heaving of her chest. "You're pathetic," he jeered and Joe recoiled like the words had been directed at him, his mind reeling from the memory. _A young boy, bloody and bruised..._

The SS officer spit, the glob landing next to Caroline's face. "See that your hospitality improves next time I visit." With one final glare he turned and limped away, leaving a trail of blood across the grass. The other two soldiers followed and shortly thereafter Joe heard the Mercedes pull away, taking off down the road.

Joe shifted his weight back and forth, anxiously waiting to make sure they were really gone. His eyes remained fixed on Caroline, who still didn't move. After what seemed like an eternity, he lifted the latch and pushed his way out. As soon as he did the skies finally opened up, sending down a curtain of rain that instantly soaked them both. If Caroline was conscious she didn't react.

When he finally knelt beside her he saw that her eyes were open, the blue orbs fixed on the clouds despite the downpour.

"Caroline?" His voice felt strangled, as if it was coming from somewhere inside him that he hadn't known existed. He gently touched her shoulder and her eyes slowly rolled over to meet his.

Joseph Leibgott always found it easy to be an asshole. When he was, there might be a rude look or two but that was usually the end of it. Most of the time people just went quiet and pretended he wasn't there. The braver ones might fight him, but that was okay too. Anger and indifference were familiar things he could deal with. The reality of what was going on in people's heads – that was something that he was naïve about. Growing up, his mother always hid her problems behind a façade of smiles. His father hid his behind a can of beer. The kids at school used their fists and the guys around him now used humor and silent resignation to bury whatever the painful event of the moment was deep down inside. No one for fuck's sake talked about it. Ever. At least, not around him. And that made it easy to not give a damn.

Caroline wasn't talking to him, not with words. But when her red-rimmed, blue eyes bore into his he suddenly he felt as though she may as well have poured her heart out to him. He felt her despair, her sadness, her dimming hope that things for her will ever be good again. She had been so careful, so cautious around him. He knew she was a woman of many secrets but otherwise she remained an enigma, even if it was one he kept himself intentionally ignorant to. That was a mistake, one that was corrected the instant she looked to him, her eyes bare of anything but the truth.

He had been an asshole the majority of his time here. He had been wrong. He had been wrong in calling her a Nazi, in tying her up, in his atrocious behavior after he awoke from his coma. Caroline had saved his life, multiple times. And now she was lying here, in pain, and looking to him for solace. Him, of all people. She trusted him with the broken pieces of herself, freely given in the unblinking depths of those eyes. It was the first time anyone had ever done anything like this to him. Part of him wanted to panic, to run away from the humanity threatening to overwhelm the icy barrier that protected him for so long.

But a bigger part of him, the part that had grown out of that scared boy who needed the ice to survive, wanted to reach out to her. Wanted to collect those pieces and put them back together again. It was fucking terrifying. It was exhilarating.

"Come on," he whispered, the rain running in rivulets off his helmet and down his face. "Let's get you inside."

Her only response was a faint nod, her stare still connected to his. She shifted to try to stand, her brow crinkling with pain. He stilled her efforts by wrapping his arms underneath her, lifting her up with him. His side protested, but he ignored it. Holding her to him, he took them both into the shelter of the house

* * *

 **Please let me know what you think. Some answers about Caroline's background are coming in the next chapter. Is it too confusing to be kept in the dark? Too annoying? Please review and let me know!**


	18. Chapter 17

**Happy weekend! So I know in the last chapter I said I was going to start looking into Caroline's past, but unfortunately I got on a writing roll and before I knew it this chapter was already pretty long. As a result, the info I promised got pushed to Ch. 18. Its seems that most everybody, though, is happy with the pacing (I hope) so hopefully this isn't too frustrating.**

 **On that note, I realize that I have written 17 chapters and the timeline has only moved forward four days. Nobody is getting bored, are they? The action and the pacing are going to be picking up soon!**

 **Helianza** **\- Thanks for the review! True, I did use the French spelling of Caroline. To be honest, it was originally just because I like that spelling better and the "C" spelling is not unheard of in Germany. However, as the story has progressed I think her having a non-traditional name helps communicate her sense of isolation from the rest of the characters, who all have very traditional German names. It just another barrier against her desire to belong and accentuates how different she is. I do plan on updating regularly - so far I'm getting about a chapter a week out and hope to keep up that pace.**

 **BobtheFrog** **,** **emilywd** **,** **missavc34** **,** **Luckylily, and** **HeroesofWar - Thank you for your reviews, as always! They are great motivation to keep the story going and reassurance that a new writer like me is on the right path.**

 **Cecilia - I appreciate you taking the time to review! What is your native language, if I might ask?**

 **Ha, this is a really long A/N. I've got a bunch of lawn work and house cleaning to do today. Can you tell I'm trying to procrastinate? :)**

* * *

Pain is a familiar bedfellow. The early years of my existence, the ones before everything fell apart, are so distant now that I wonder if they aren't mirages fooling my memory into thinking I haven't always been like this. That I was once a happy child, one who loved and was loved. It was another time, another life, buried now deeply under years of the torment, loss, and loneliness that have been my only companions for so long that I'm not sure what it's like to feel any other way.

Which is why the feeling of being carried, of the warm arms holding me to an even warmer body, makes me want to scream. To fight. To push myself away until the distance is enough that I can breathe and protect myself from the inevitable, constant pain being touched always brings. The night my childhood came to an end I was carried like this, as a girl of twelve, away from the burning conflagration that had been my home. The man who had been holding me wasn't kind and his grip wasn't gentle. And the first time Henrich seduced me, at sixteen, his arms held me in this fashion too. During the moment it had been romantic and for the first time I thought I found something that would lead me out of the darkness.

What happened when those arms released me and the honeyed smile dropped off his face, though, just reinforced what I should have known all along. Expecting things to suddenly change, to suddenly be different for the better, is just opening myself up for crushing disillusionment.

I know this. I know I should get away from Joseph, a man who has been upfront in his hatred of Germans and his oath to kill us. If anything is going to send me down the path of regret once more, it is allowing myself to think Joseph is going to act any differently now. To think that being carried like this again isn't going to end in the same familiar sorrow.

I won't allow myself to believe anything has changed. I won't let myself ponder what he saw as he leaned over me, his body blocking the rain, and his brown eyes swimming with things that seemed to be as foreign to him as to me. Henrich's visits are like ripping the scab off the same festering wound, over and over every time he knocks on my door. He is a breathing reminder of what I left behind, a witness to my darkest moments and the depths of my wickedness. Henrich is the devil on my shoulder, taunting me with the knowledge that I don't deserve forgiveness and that redemption is only reserved for those who can be saved.

I hate him. I hate him because, deep down, I suspect I'm just as condemned as he is and there is nothing I can do to change it.

The moments after he leaves are always the worst. The stillness of the house closes in around me, offering no comfort as I try to stop the hemorrhaging of memory and pain I feel with every whiff of his cologne that still hangs in the air. Sometimes it only takes an hour to pull myself back together. Sometimes it's a few days until the scab is firmly back in place and I can function again. Then there are particular visits where Greta always somehow knows to come by afterwards and coax me, naked and bleeding, back into the land of the living.

That's why she is the only one here who knows the truth. There are some things that can't be explained away and some levels of trust that are reached in which nothing can be hidden any longer.

And so I couldn't cobble myself together quickly enough to hide from Joseph, to lock everything safely away and put on a brave front to face the things he is going to want to know. Instead, as he hung over me, fingertips brushing the torn seam at my shoulder, I latched onto him to keep myself afloat. Something to ground myself on, to grasp ahold of before I drifted away. Before I could help myself I gave everything to him, desperate to share the burden that was going to drown me more quickly than the rain falling onto my face.

The Joseph I had come to know should have recoiled. Should have let loose a string of profanities and accusations fittingly directed at the only Nazi within striking range. He should have dragged me back into the house just as harshly as Henrich dragged me out and started my day of reckoning.

But now he is holding me and I don't realize how hard I am shaking until my hand curls into the front of his jacket, clenching the stitching spelling out _LIEBGOTT_ in a trembling fist. I want to hit him, to get him to drop me and leave. I want to be alone, to draw the silence around me until I can't hear even my own thoughts and wallow in my misery in the safety of being by myself. My vulnerability is stamped on me for him to see and he will be ruthless when he takes advantage of it, just like everyone else has.

But I don't. I can't. My fight was used up laying the hoe into Henrich's foot. It was a desperate move, one motivated by the humiliation of what Henrich was doing to me and the building fury I could feel filling the barn behind me. Joseph didn't have to be here. He could have burst out of the barn and killed us all at any point. He could have run after Henrich left. He could have even charged into the woods while they were still here. Once he made it into the thick foliage they wouldn't have found him. Left behind, I would have run interference to delay them as long as possible. He probably would have been able to make it to safety.

But he is still here. He is still here and to be honest with myself the sight of him through the planks of the barn alleviated the anguish that unexplainably arose when I realized he was gone. It was almost more distressing than the sharp bolt of horror that shot through me when I saw Henrich and thought he had been captured.

I don't know how it has happened. I don't know why it has happened. Despite everything Joseph has maneuvered into my conscious to provoke things I never thought I was capable of feeling ever again. Emotions I know are dangerous, foolish, and risk leaving me in a state I finally can't recover from. But irrationally, illogically, perhaps even stupidly, I don't shut them away. I don't let the lessons learned taint the idea that maybe I have one more chance to fill the hole eating its way through my chest.

So despite my better judgement I let myself be carried, once again, if only because it doesn't really make a difference now. I am lost. I was lost the moment our eyes met out on the road.

* * *

We enter the darkness of the house and the dishes they have scattered across the floorboards crunch under his boots. He stops short, and I feel him take a deliberate breath, unknown English words whispering past his lips. I know what he sees and don't bother looking at what the men have done to my home. My head reels and in the cold darkness I feel my shaking escalate until I think my bones are going to rattle right out of my skin. My stomach cramps, needing more than the bread I ate this morning, and my face feels numb. It all swirls together in a sick mess, threatening to close in on me and steal me away into unconsciousness.

I feel myself being jostled and the burning pain in my ribs sucks away my breath.

"Sorry," I hear him say. "I'm trying to get around this fucking mess."

My answer doesn't make it past my frozen lips. The nausea looms larger and I instinctively turn into the heat next to me, until my face is buried in wet, warm fabric that smells of him and my laundry soap. If I wasn't so focused on staying awake I would worry that he will tell me to stop, that he will push me away like I am too dirty to pollute his person. I would worry that he will finally come to his senses and get out of here and away from me.

Instead he says nothing and I focus on breathing, keeping the last strings attaching me to reality from breaking and careening me off into oblivion. It's not until I feel myself being lowered that I finally force my eyes open to see nothing but blurs of color against the fading light coming through the window. Blinking, I try to focus but things instead just spin and the bile shoots up the back of my throat. I slam them shut again.

I feel my backside meet something soft and his arm unhook from behind my knees. His other stays behind my shoulders, his fingers pressing into my skin through my blouse.

"Caroline? Can you open your eyes?" His voice comes from right next to me.

No. I'm going to heave if I do. Shivers rack my body, painfully vibrating my ribcage with every jerk. My pulse pounds in my ears and I hear the breath push out of my nose.

 _I'm giving you a chance to redeem yourself out there Caroline. To think over how far you've come and what is going to happen to you if you don't realize that I know what's best for you. You are lucky you are so popular with the press. All the others who have failed me are no longer –_

"Caroline?" he says again and I feel fingertips ghosting over my bruising cheek. I jerk, eyelids flying open. My stomach drops but I force myself not to close them again. There is movement right in front of me and slowly the lines sharpen until I can make out his neck, the pink scar cutting into him just above his collar.

"Can you stay sitting up?" He moves and I see his face appear from under the shadows of his helmet. His expression is drawn and his eyes are sharp as they scan over me. While Henrich's leer made me want to curl up and hide, the steady scrutiny coming from Joseph is not threatening. On the contrary it is oddly comforting, as if his attention could for once overwhelm the voice in my brain and ebb the internal chaos threating to send me over the edge.

Swallowing, I nod and he cautiously removes his hand from my back. When he sees that I'm not going to topple over, he goes to stand.

"Stay here. I'll be right back."

I hear the hard soles of his boots on the floorboards, following by the sound of the curtains being pulled. The room goes dark and he disappears down the hall.

Where is he going? I don't have the energy to try to guess. Rain splatters against the window and I can barely make out the shape of my turned over wardrobe in the dimness. Another rough shudder travels across me and my ribs howl with pain. I feel myself doubling over, my numb hand pressing against the agony. My forehead hits my knees and the absurd urge to collapse, to just go limp and accept where I land, floats in my brain. Another snarl of hunger pulls at my abdomen.

"Hey." I feel hands on my shoulders, pulling me back up. My muscles go rigid under the touch and I sit up, sucking in a tight breath. The familiar form of Joseph is kneeling before me again. Joseph, not Henrich. The lamp is lit, sitting on the table by my bed that he must have moved upright.

"Drink this." Something cool and smooth is pressed into my hand. The bottle of whiskey. My fingers don't follow directions and it slides downward. He catches it just before it hits the ground.

"I can't." My voice doesn't sound like my own. It is dry and haggard, the words like sandpaper over my tongue.

"Just a sip or two. It will help." He pushes it against my palm again.

"No," I protest. He doesn't understand. "My hand. I can't…" Can't what? Feel it? Get it to work? I don't know anymore.

"Ok. Give me just a second." He puts the bottle next to the lamp, then pulls off his helmet and gear belt, followed by his jacket. His uniform shirt is soaking wet too, but he leaves it on. I watch him blankly, the gears in my brain struggling to turn. Suddenly I'm exhausted.

He takes the bottle again and settles himself at my feet. "Tilt your head back."

I follow his direction and a second later the glass is against my lips, the acrid amber liquid sliding the back of my throat. It drops straight to my stomach, where it burns in the emptiness. Immediately a swimming sensation edges around my mind. The tingling warmth floods through my body, loosening the tight band of fear threaded around my chest.

"There you go," he says quietly, pulling the bottle away. Popping the cork back into it, he sits it aside before taking my hand. "What happened to it?" he asks, inspecting my fingers in the dancing light.

"Nothing," I answer, my voice still hoarse despite the liquor. "It just… with the cold… I don't know." There isn't a good way to describe the paralysis that grips me after every visit from Henrich.

He places my hand back on the bed and leans back on his heels. "It _is_ chilly in here. Are we actually out of firewood, or were you just punishing me with that cold bath earlier?"

My gaze shoots up, wondering if it is the hunger or the alcohol that is making me imagine the small wry smile skimming across his hard face. Joseph has a sense of humor? Either I'm hallucinating or things must be really bad for him to try to cheer me up. He doesn't bring cheer to anyone.

"No, there really isn't any." I look back down, not sure how to handle this side of him.

I feel him shift forward again and then there is hand on my side, just underneath the curve of my breast.

 _Now why don't you show me the affection a fiancé deserves?_

"Caroline. _Caroline_." I blink and Joseph has risen to a crouch, his face level with mine. The tiny upturn of his mouth is gone. "I'm just checking if your ribs are broken."

I look down and see that my hand has encircled his wrist, squeezing so hard that my fingers are white and the torn nails are on the verge of breaking his skin. I instantly release it like it is a hot poker. "I'm sorry. I don't- "

"It's okay," he interrupts. "I should have warned you."

 _It's okay?_ Yesterday the answer would have been, _Get your fucking Nazi hands off me._ He treating me with kid gloves, like I'm a skittish horse that will kick him at any second. Why? Why is he even here, now, tending to me like I'm an invalid?

 _Because I'm pathetic_. Because what happened today paints me to be some poor damsel in distress who needs rescuing. Because to him I obviously can't take care of myself. He's babysitting me because he feels obligated.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I'm so hungry. _He's_ the one who needed rescuing. _He's_ the one who showed up, bleeding all over the place. I saved _him_. Not the other way around. No matter what the senseless, perilous things I will let myself feel towards him I still won't have him pitying me.

I go to move away. "I'm sure it's fine-" The last syllable is cut off with a gasp as a combination of my movement and his probing fingertips hit a spot that erupts with fire.

"Hang on," he says, rising up to move closer, his hand staying on that spot. "I need to lift up your shirt to look at it, okay?"

I breathe through the pain, not able to do anything but move my head to show I heard him. His other hand balls the fabric of my blouse and I wince as he tugs it free of my skirt. The pressure his fingers are putting on my ribs, however light, makes it feel like they are going to explode into a thousand shards inside my chest.

He grabs the lamp, pulling the flame over to light where his fingers are examining my side. "Hold your breath for just a second."

I do and the rough callouses on his palm scrape against me as he flattens his hand around the curve of my ribcage. Outside there is a crack of thunder and the rain pours down even harder. My wet hair hangs in the corner of my vision, steadily dripping onto the floor.

His arm crosses around me, putting the lamp back on the table. Then it moves to my shoulder, holding me in place. "Now inhale as deeply as you can."

I do and the pain intensifies as the hand on my ribs presses down. I fight through it, until my lungs are full and my vision tilts.

"Ok, that's good." He backs away, pulling my shirt back down. I feel cold as his body heat dissipates and my stomach growls again. "I don't think they're broken, just bruised."

I don't know how he can tell. The pain makes me think that everything down there is shattered.

"Are you sure?" The words are hitched as a shiver causes another bloom of tenderness through my middle.

He digs into his right pocket, a gesture that reminds me that I've taken his cigarettes. His hand comes out empty and he sighs. "No, but I've had broken ribs before. I couldn't inhale like you just did. I also didn't feel anything moving around just now. But they could still be cracked. He would have had to hit you pretty hard but-"

"Why are you still here?" The words choke in my throat, but he still hears them. I can't bear this any longer – this strange interaction between us that is making it harder to stop myself from hoping for things that will never happen. His eyes widen and he takes a step back towards the wall across from me. As he looks at me it feels like the air in the room drops several degrees

"What do you mean?" The softness in his voice is gone. My jaw aches from stopping my teeth from chattering. But I still press on. I don't want him to think he has to stay because I'm helpless. I don't need his charity. The loss of him leaving would be better than the ache of knowing I am nothing but a duty to be fulfilled out of sympathy.

My good hand grips the edge of the mattress, bracing myself for what I have to say. "You've already almost been caught three times. You should realize by now that I'm not a person who is safe to stay with. The wound in your side will hold up until you can make it back to the Americans and one of your medics can stitch it up. So why haven't you left? I will be just fine on my own."

The last sentence is said more to myself than him, but it comes out all the same. He crosses his arms as he leans back against the wall, dark eyes contemplative as they rest unblinkingly on me. The room is silent save for the storm outside.

"The rain," he finally says.

"What?" What does that mean?

"It's raining. I don't know where the front is. I don't want to travel in the rain if I don't know where I'm going."

His tone is back to the cadence that has become so familiar – dismissive and condescending. That should be a relief. But the tears still spring into my eyes again before I can stop them and I rapidly blink them back before he can see. Of course. He is still here because of the weather. I don't want this to upset me. It shouldn't. After all, what was I expecting to hear? I'm the crazy one here. The one who is losing her mind and thinking that some enemy soldier can consider anything about me but…

I'm starving. That's why I feel like I'm on the edge, like I'm going to do something stupid that I will regret. The hunger is taking away my control.

Before I can formulate a response he is picking his gear off the floor, his face blank and guarded again. "I'll be in the cellar, trying to dry off."

Then he is gone, disappearing into the darkness outside the room. I'm left behind in the small halo of lamplight, the notion of being alone again weighing on my shoulders more heavily than ever before.

* * *

Night has fallen by the time I finally force myself to stand, the rain diminished to a sparse tapping on the window but the air still humid and chilled. A few faint sounds of movement come from the cellar but Joseph doesn't reappear.

I balance myself against the wall as I shift my weight to my feet, waiting to see if my knees will buckle. The burning hunger makes my legs wobble, but they keep me upright. The pain in my side intensifies as I shakily straighten and cold rainwater runs from my skirt down my stockings.

The wardrobe is laying on its back, the doors flung open and the contents ripped from the hangers. I gingerly maneuver my way over to it and pick out dry clothes from the jumble. I find Greta's bag kicked into the corner of the room, but the cleaned bandages I stored inside are still in one piece.

Hugging my splinted arm to my aching chest, I make my way back to the bed and start the arduous process of changing. Once I finally untangle my wet blouse and chemise from me I unravel the bandages threading through my armpits to bind my upper back. Despite Henrich pushing me around the bandages are clear of fresh blood from the stitches.

Twisting around to negotiate undressing leaves me breathless and I slump forward once I'm naked, gathering the energy to continue. Two red bruises are blossoming on my torso – one on my sternum and a deeper, angrier one in the spot Joseph had held his hand. I raise my own to cover the mark, but it doesn't feel the same.

For a few minutes he had been kinder to me than anyone has in years, except Greta. Maybe I am a fool. Empathy is a tricky emotion, one that I do not know very well. It is not one that Joseph wears on his sleeve; indeed before last night I thought his range was limited to the pendulum of anger and apathy. But if it really was pity that motivated him to do something besides leave me in the dirt he should have been relieved when I told him to go. He should have bid me goodbye and run away into the night. What he did do – clam up and walk away like he was insulted – suggesting something otherwise. Something that would make him staying here and being around me all the more hazardous for my sense of reason.

I pull the fresh bandages from the bag and a flash of blue catches my eye. The wool trousers I took from the aid station. The shirt is still there too, folded underneath. I worry my lip. His uniform was soaked. Would he take a peace offering? Or tell me to get the _hell_ out of the cellar?

It takes forever to re-wrap the bandages and get the rest of my clothes on. Working with one hand was enough of a challenge; now having to take care not to move my splinted arm to avoid aggravating the growing bruises on my chest just adds to the hassle. I haven't been this stiff or this sore since –

 _I am going to make you perfect._

I stagger to my feet again, hauling the bag onto my shoulder and grabbing the lamp. My stomach spasms and I wonder if Henrich's men stole the last of the food. They certainly were thorough in destroying my things. It was a sick game, played every time he came. In some way it was supposed to make me give in and go back to Berlin, as if a big mess could make me reconsider ever returning to that life again. Henrich is more than dense. He is an idiot. A psychotic, cruel idiot. The only bigger moron is me for once thinking I loved him.

 _I will make you two famous._

The glow of Joseph's flashlight is illuminating the cellar ladder in shades of white when I pull open the door. As I carefully climb down I see that the shelves have been turned over, their contents strewn across the floor. A brief pang of worry rises regarding the fate of my mother's jeweled pin. Henrich must have been down here too. The barn is only thing they didn't check, fortunately for Joseph.

He is standing by the cot, wearing just his undershirt and pants. His uniform shirt is in his hands, where he is wringing it to force the water out. His eyes turn towards me, silently assessing me, before turning back to the task at hand. He doesn't say a word.

"You're lucky you got out in time," I try, setting the lamp down but remaining at the bottom of the ladder, not wanting to intrude further if he is going to yell at me to leave.

His gaze flashes at me again. "Fortunately your _fiancée_ showed the courtesy of knocking first, so I had time to get to the barn," he answers, his voice flat.

I cringe as the words stab into me. But I notice that his grip on the shirt is needlessly tight and his posture is rigid. He is angry. Angry and defensive.

"He's not my fiancée. He's…" I falter, not sure how to continue. I know he deserves answers. But I don't know how to avoid telling him the things that will make him so upset that I'm afraid what he will do.

The shirt is tossed onto the cot and he turns towards me, the brunt of his hostility hitting me full force in his heated brown eyes. "He's what?"

My lips moves but nothing comes out. The words don't miraculously appear in my head. No easy story, honest or not, conjures for me to placate him and his jaw tics with aggravation.

"What, Caroline? Who is he? How do you know him? Why does he hate you? Why does _everyone_ here appear to hate you?"

With every question he steps towards me and his voice rises until he is towering over me and the fuming words make my ears ring. This isn't what I want to happen. The ugly truth runs up my throat, begging to come out. But I can't let it. It would ruin everything. A belt of dread tightens back around my chest and my ribs scream as my heart rattles against them. The beams of both his flashlight on the cot and the lamp at my feet throw me into a spotlight that makes my skin clammy and the panic claw through my insides. Before I know it I am lifting myself onto the ladder, desperate to find a way out of the corner he is backing me into.

"Oh no you don't." His hand is on mine, removing it from the rung. He presses forward until I feel the wall behind me and the space between us is so small all I can do is smell him with every gasp of air I pull through my nose. He still smells like cigarettes. Cigarettes and rain.

He releases my hand and doesn't try to touch me again. Instead his palms flatten against the wall on either side of my head, boxing me in. I'm not afraid that he'll harm me if I stay quiet. No, after he reeled himself back in the yard yesterday I know he won't hurt me as long as he's in the dark about my past. What I'm afraid of is that his actions will lead me to admit something so terrible that he will lose control and do something we both regret.

"You… you said you didn't want to know," I stall frantically.

"I said I didn't care if it didn't pertain to our safety. Like you told me, I've narrowly escaped being discovered three times. Whatever you are hiding from me has so far led to at least two fucking Nazi officers coming here to give you hell. I think it's past time I concern myself with what is going on." His voice matches his expression – hard and uncompromising.

My legs quiver and my heart pounds harder. He's not going to let me go until I've told him everything.

He leans in even closer, his breath fanning across my face. "Tell me, Caroline."

"I-I…" I can't breathe. He is too near. The body heat I found comforting earlier is now suffocating. I need to get out here.

His lips purse and there is a loud smack as he hits the wall by my face with an open palm. " _Caroline_."

I jump, my nostrils flaring as I try to get more air into my tight chest. My head feels like it's going to detach from my body and float away. I'm going to pass out.

 _The things we do have to be done, Caroline, no matter how awful they may seem. That is the only way Germany is going to rise out of the ashes. What I tell you to do may seem ugly and senseless, but that is because we have allowed ourselves to become ugly and senseless. The Fuhrer is going to cleanse us of our folly and sometimes brutal force is the only way this can be accomplished._

" _Godammit_. Fucking start talking Caroline!" He is already losing his composure. He can't know. He won't be able to handle it.

"I can't," I whisper, the vision of him blurring. I feel like I'm collapsing in on myself, like a star in the throes of death. My mind is drawing inward, away from the cellar, away from Joseph, away from the debris of my life scattered through the past ten years. I think of the doctor and how hard I tried to be perfect for him. I think of Henrich and how we are journeying together straight to Hell. I think of my parents and how ashamed they must be of me, even in death.

" _Bullshit_!"

Why did I ever think I could get out of this predicament? This house is my purgatory, a place that is nowhere for me to linger being nothing. Joseph will pass out of my life and I will forever be here, thinking nostalgically of him and the time where I thought I had a chance.

"Look at me! Tell me the truth."

His voice sounds far away and I know I have lost my battle. There is only one way to avoid him and I feel my eyelids slide closed. The past is too painful for him to hear and me to say. The ground disappears from below me feet and the wall from my back. I am so hungry. I am so tired.

"Caroline?"

It's too late. I feel myself spinning and everything dissolves into black.


	19. Chapter 18

**You guys. There is a reason I do a lot of internal narration. Dialogue is _hard_. I wrote this entire chapter over the week, then ended up deleting it all and starting over Friday. But the good news is we get some answers about Caroline. Yay!**

 **Algebrakraken and Luckylily - thank you for the kind reviews. I really appreciate the feedback!**

 **9/21 - Edited some typos and reposted. I was rushed and did a cruddy job proofreading last night.**

* * *

Everything had stopped making sense.

Her face, already pale, became pasty with the exception of the dark circles under her eyes. Her forehead was clammy with sweat and her eyes stopped focusing on him. Then she was sliding down the wall, going limp and puddling towards ground.

He dove, catching her just before she met the hard floor. She lolled against him, completely unconscious.

Shit.

The look she gave him outside befuddled his brain and he found himself doing things that just a few days ago would have seemed preposterous. Carrying her inside, holding the liquor for her to drink, putting his hands on her to see if she was injured… things that were so alien to him that he felt strange doing them. He was self-conscious and uncertain - feelings he hadn't had in so long he had almost forgotten them.

He had thought she felt the same and for some reason expected something to change. Maybe a relaxation of the careful way she conducted herself around him. Maybe an acknowledgement that they weren't on opposing sides any longer.

But instead she told him to leave - told him that she could take care of herself - and he remembered why it had always been unwise for him to try to be compassionate. It was a direct contradiction to how he saw himself in this war. A dead man doesn't have feelings, especially for a woman. The things that made Joe a good soldier also meant that forming connections with other people was a luxury he couldn't afford. So when Caroline said those things he knew in the back of his mind that he should have predicted this. But it still made him angry. Her rejection made it feel like he wasn't good enough, wasn't perfect enough, to get close to her. She reminded him that he had one purpose in this life: killing. For anything else, like the boys in school constantly taunted, he was just a fucking useless nobody.

He hadn't intended to waylay her when she came down here. The words jumped out of his mouth before he realized it, fueled by the hurt simmering deep inside him in a place he will never admit existed. But then her response, her stammering attempt to lie to him again, just compounded the turmoil that raged every time he heard her voice. After everything they had been through he deserved more than another half-baked diversion to skirt around what is really going on inside her head. Since he got here he saw how she would momentarily lose focus, her eyes glazing over as if she were listening to something playing in her mind. She would stop what she was doing, frozen with her mouth turned in a frown, hearing things that were unknown to him. It happened often enough that he realized something was tormenting her. Then he heard the horrible things the Nazis who came here said to her and saw the scars on her legs. Putting it all together, he was done playing her games. It didn't matter if what she wouldn't tell him effected his safety or not. It didn't even matter if what she had to say was even any of his business. He wanted to know and she wasn't going to be able to hide any goddamn longer.

But he had damn near attacked her and rattled her to the point that she fucking fell unconscious. And now, as she lay in his arms looking as fragile as glass, he wanted to apologize. Something he had never even thought of to do before. Maybe she did want him to leave. Maybe whatever the fuck was going on here was completely one-sided. That would make perfect sense from her perspective

Or maybe she was just as terrified as he was of what was happening.

Picking her up, he carried over to lay her on the bedding he had just rearranged on the cot. The cellar had been a fucking mess when he came down here, just like the rest of the house. Not only did this Henrich guy almost violate her, he had also fucking destroyed anything of hers he could get his hands on. Just like with everything else, Joe didn't have a clue why. It ate at him, making his mind obsess over every little detail he had seen. Schueller had called her a partisan. Henrich said she was Goebbel's Golden Girl. She thought he was a Nazi the night he came here and expected him to execute her. She was being pressured to 'return' to Berlin. But return to what, who knows? He couldn't put the pieces together to make a clear picture and it was driving him crazy.

He knew what he was doing was dangerous. He knew he was leaving himself vulnerable in more ways than one. But he was past believing that he could keep himself willingly in the dark went it came to her. The desire to be a heartless machine warred against the human side of him that had been suppressed for too long. Whatever they shared out in the rain made him feel like they were strung together now, attached to one another in a way that made his insides pull in a strange direction. Even what happened since didn't really make him feel any different. When she came down to the cellar a small part of him was glad. Fucking glad that she was by him again.

No goddamn sense, whatsoever.

No one had been able to do this before. No one had made his insides thaw so quickly and completely. His defenses had been flattened and she strolled right in to make herself at home in his thoughts. He knew his anger on some level was an automatic response - a woman who did this to him scared him, but a woman who did this within four days of meeting him shook him to his core.

Blinking, he realized that he was still kneeling next to her, watching her breathe. Quickly he stood, backing away to give himself some space to think. Just because he was going fucking soft didn't mean he was going to give up. She was still going to have to give him some answers when she awoke. He might just not be so goddamn stupid in his approach.

On his hunt for his cigarettes he saw how little food she had. Is that what made her faint? Hunger? Or was it him being a complete asshole?

Turning around, he spied the bag she had brought down with her laying at the bottom of the ladder next to the lamp. Moving the lamp out of the way, he pulled it open. Underneath a roll of bandages there were some sort of clothes inside – a shirt and trousers. They appeared to be made for a man – where they for him? Where the hell had she gotten them?

His soaking clothes stuck to his skin, taking away what little body heat he could muster in the absence of the stove.

Throwing a sideways glance to make sure she was still asleep, he stepped out of the bubble of lamplight and began yanking off his uniform. Who else would the clothes be for besides him? It would be better, too, if he wasn't walking around here with a giant American flag slapped on him for everyone to see. Dressed as a civilian he might have a chance of slipping by anyone else who decided to visit Caroline.

The shirt was a bit tight across the shoulders and too short in the sleeves. He rolled the cuffs up to his elbows to hide the fact and yanked on the pants. His army belt would have stood out like a sore thumb, so it was lucky that they fit at the waist. Surprisingly they were also long enough despite his height. Finally dry, he felt a thousand degrees warmer. His dog tags clinked against his chest and he stuffed them inside the shirt. He wasn't going to part with those. His knife, too, stayed in his boot under the pants.

Stepping around the mess, he settled himself against the wall across from her. Might as well keep his distance to avoid a panic attack when she came around. Tugging his uniform towards him, he began to empty the pockets so the clothing could dry, stuffing everything that could fit into his gear bags. He also dragged his rifle over, propping it next to him.

He had just come across his ration tin when he suddenly heard her sigh. Looking up, he saw her eyes fluttering open, staring at the ceiling. She swallowed once, twice, and a thin hand moved to press on her stomach.

As she slowly gained her bearings he remained silent, watching her from across the cellar. Her blond hair, now mostly dry, hung loose over the side of the cot. The splint covering her broken hand was still wet and mud splattered, although she had changed the rest of her clothes. The hand moved up to her bruised ribs and for a second his mind flashed to the feeling of her skin under his touch.

She inhaled sharply and when he focused again she was staring at him, the foggy confusion on her face gone. She instead looked hesitant and expectant, as if she was waiting for him to go off on her again.

"Are you alright?" he started. His voice was unexpectedly hoarse and he coughed.

She dipped her head but didn't speak.

He fiddled with the ration tin in his fingers. "What happened?"

She looked away from him, her eyes going to study the ceiling. "I don't know."

He frowned at her faint, guarded tone. She was shutting him out. Usually that was a good thing. With everyone else it meant that he could go on about his day without being bothered by any bullshit. Now it just made him worried. It made him think that he had finally burned his bridge with her and whatever they shared in the yard was already dead. And why shouldn't it be? He had handled it with the finesse of a bull in a china shop and now she was probably made uneasy by his very presence.

He focused on the can in his hands, not wanting to watch her answer his next question. "Are you afraid of me?"

There was a pause. "Should I be?"

His fingertips clenched down on the can. "Most people are." Just like she probably is. Just like he made her be.

"Most people, I imagine, think you are going to kill them." His eyes darted upwards. She still wasn't looking at him.

"Do you?" Any harder and his grip was going to cause dents.

She closed her eyes, swallowing. "...No. No, I'm not afraid."

He relaxed, the skin of his palms lined from pressing against the metal ridges. He silently let out a breath. "Then why? Why all the secrecy?"

He saw her face fall when he broached the topic once more. "Because," her voice dropped to a whisper, "it's an ugly story."

"Maybe I can help."

"Help?" Suddenly her eyes snapped open and she turned towards him. "You are leaving in a few days. How can you help?"

There it was again. Him leaving was on her mind. She really did want him to go. The can popped under the pressure of his hands. Maybe this all was for nothing. "I won't know," he drawled out, using annoyance to cover the disappointment in his voice, "until you tell me what is going on."

"Well trust me, you can't." Her tone was harsh, but her face was twisted in sorrow. His pulse ticked higher as she retreated further from him.

"You don't know that," he responded, keeping his voice level. Her expression darkened with anger as the words sunk in and she struggled to raise up from the cot. Failing, she fell back down with a gasp, her hand grabbing her chest again. He tensed, but didn't try to approach her.

"Why would you even want to help? What's in it for you?" she threw at him, her face red. He recognized what she was doing if only because he knew it so well. Being disagreeable is an easy way to get people to stop pestering with their questions.

"You are terrified," he observed, aggravation tugging at him the more she tried to push him away.

She opened her mouth then snapped it shut. "What?"

"Whatever it is, you are petrified of telling me. Why?"

"I'm not scared."

"Then why did you panic when I asked earlier?"

"Because you were _yelling_ at me."

"That shouldn't make a difference. You said you weren't afraid of me, Caroline."

" _I'm not_." Frustration laced every word.

"Then why can't I know?" he pushed.

"Because maybe it's none of your _damn_ business."

His eyebrows shot up. This might be the first time she's cursed in front of him. "Of course it's my business."

"How?"

"You said I was lucky to escape Henrich's visit, and you were right." Despite his control his voice rose as the heat spread through him with every elusive answer she gave.

" _No one else_ is coming." Her volume matched his.

"How am I supposed to know that?"

"Because I'm telling you."

"So I'm supposed to trust you but you can't trust me?" His irritation broke through and his words were sharp.

She scoffed. "I think de facto trust has been what we are doing since you came here. If it wasn't you would have killed me just like you did that soldier."

"But I didn't. I haven't hurt you – "

"Not for a lack of trying."

His jaw ticked. "-unlike the other Nazis who've had the misfortune of meeting me."

Her face went white. "So I'm just another Nazi again?"

This was spiraling out of control. He dropped the tin, which landed with a loud _clunk_ on the stone floor. " _No._ What I'm trying to say is that you're different – "

"Different how?" She was trying to sit up again.

"Just _different_. So I'm asking you to tell me – "

"Different for a Nazi? You mean you don't have an immediate urge to wring my neck? Is _that_ your reason why I should tell you?"

"Son of bitch - no, it isn't." He was so bad at this. What the fuck was he trying to say? Every word was just making it worse.

She rolled over to her side, trying to push herself up that way, pain marking her face. He couldn't take it anymore. "Here, let me help you," he told her, climbing up from the floor.

"I don't _need_ your help." She heaved herself upward, pulling her legs around to rest her feet on the floor.

He stopped, mouth pursing. "I beg to differ."

The muscles in her face were tight. "What, you want to rescue me? Is that what this is all about? You want to be some knight in shining armor?"

"Jesus Christ Caroline, stop twisting my words around. Why are you being so defensive?"

"I'm defensive? You're the one who didn't want to say two words to me this morning. Now all of sudden you want to talk and I'm the one with the problem?"

"Things have changed since then-"

"What has changed? You feel sorry for me now? You suddenly want to hear my life story so you can pity-"

"I _fucking_ care about what happens to you, _goddammit_."

His words echoed in the small room, seemingly becoming louder as they bounced off the walls. She froze, gaping at him. He stared right back, not believing that he had finally fucking admitted it.

"You what?" she breathed.

He shifted, not sure what to do next. It was out there and he couldn't take it back now.

"Why?" The anger had disappeared, replaced by a soft air of disbelief.

"I don't know," he muttered, avoiding looking at her. "When Henrich was here and I thought he was… I don't fucking know." He ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

"I thought you hated all Germans."

"Up until a few days ago I thought I did too." Shit, this was painful. Every single second of this was foreign to him, like he had been dropped onto a distant planet and had to learn a new way of speaking and thinking. Part of him wanted to tell her to forget about it and shove off. A larger part waited anxiously for her next words.

Her gaze dropped to the floor. "You don't… you don't realize what you are getting yourself into."

"Then, please, help me understand." If he had any self-respect left it was stopping his voice from sounding pleading.

When she raised her face up to him again he could see the unshed tears shimmering in her eyes. Her shoulders slumped and she rubbed her face with her hand, the air around her feeling like defeat. Despite the urge to go over to her he kept his distance, waiting for her to speak.

Finally, she opened her mouth. "Can you help me change the splint?"

He blinked. "The splint?"

"Yes," she said wearily. "It needs to be changed and I can't do it with one hand." She moved to pick at the knots. Frowning with confusion, he grabbed the roll of bandages from the bag and cautiously made his way over to her. She kept her focus on her hand as he gingerly settled himself next to her.

"Are you really not going to tell me anything?" he asked lowly, swallowing hard.

"Yes, I am. But," she sighed, "just give me a moment to think." Her eyes finally looked into his and he saw the sad resignation there. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he wordlessly nodded and held out his open palm. She understood and placed the splint in his grip where he began undoing the dirty fabric.

"Do you know what the Hitler Youth are?"

"Yes, I've heard of them." He kept his eyes on his work as her hesitant words moved past her lips

"Henrich and I… We… we were in a similar program. It was test to see… how well new methods of propaganda worked." Her words were stilted, each carefully selected.

She let out a breath. "God, Joseph, I can't believe I'm going to try to do this."

Giving her an encouraging nod, he began to unwind the bindings of the splint.

"From a young age… we were made to be perfect creations of the Nazi ideal. Our looks, our behavior… it was all carefully regulated and disseminated through magazines, posters, radio… everything."

The last of the fabric fell away. Her hand was a mottled mess of black and blue against the wooden plank. "Why you?"

He saw the muscles in her forearm tense. "I was Aryan with a long German ancestry… I guess they thought I was photogenic. I was twelve when I entered the program."

She pulled her hand away from him, slowly flexing it. "It was a fantastic success, more so than I think anyone could have predicted. We both became very popular. Good Nazi schoolgirls had pictures of Henrich on their walls and the schoolboys had pictures of me. Even as we got older we still got fan mail by the sacksful. People identified with us and loved us, even if we had never met them. It was only natural that when we came of age… they decided that we should get engaged. A romance for the press. We lived the high life with the Nazi elite… attending parties, living in gorgeous apartments, reading magazine articles about ourselves daily… sometimes it felt like a dream."

He fiddled with the dirty linen in his lap. "Did you love him?"

She was staring at her hand, although she didn't appear to see it anymore. A watery smile crossed her face. "I thought I did. But Henrich… what you saw today is no different than who he was back then. I just took me awhile to realize it. I was only sixteen when the engagement was announced."

Joe knitted his brow. "Didn't your family have anything to say about it?"

She gave a rough shake of her head. "No…they didn't."

"Then who decided all this?"

"A psychologist ran the program – "

"The 'doctor' they talked about?"

"Yes. He is in charge of everything. This is his 'life's work,' in his words." She paused again, taking a swipe at her face. "He's the one who sent me here."

Joe looked at the wet streaks on her cheeks, his fingers tightening around the fabric. "Why?"

"I-I got tired of it. Of the press, of Henrich, of the Party line I had to tow with every word that came out of my mouth. I decided I didn't want to do it anymore. I tried to… to tell the doctor I was leaving, but he said I couldn't. So I stopped being so perfect. I missed interviews, frowned in pictures, made terrible comments about Henrich in public. Things that would sabotage what they were trying to do."

She looked at her hand again. "Cou-could you re-wrap it?"

He gently took it and laid it against the plank again. "What happened?"

"He figured out what I was trying to do and tamped down on it quickly. The reporters I talked to were told what to write in place of what I said. The pictures were destroyed. Anyone I spoke to out of turn was given a stern warning to stay silent. It was all about the image. I was an experiment… to see how well a person could be turned into an obedient, loyal, propaganda machine. The doctor does not give up easily. He offered me a break – to get a job helping the war effort and lay low. Henrich was going through _SS_ training then so the stories could focus on him instead. But I wanted completely out and refused to cooperate. That was an impetuous decision, in retrospect. If I had some more diplomacy about it things may have turned out differently."

She took a shuddering breath and Joe got the feeling that there was a significant portion of this timeline that she wasn't saying. Things that she was obviously remembering but wasn't telling him. But the pain was so evident on her face that he couldn't bring himself to press her. Instead he silently began winding the fresh gauze around the splint.

"So I was sent here, to live in poverty, to 'gain some perspective,' according to the doctor. The hope is that I will change my mind and go back to being how I used to be, and the doctor's great experiment won't be a failure."

He began tying the knots. "Why did they take the pictures?"

A wry smile crossed her lips. "The propaganda continues on, with or without me. The interviews and articles are still published, but are now completely fabricated. They still need fresh photos, so Henrich comes by every now and then. The official story is that I am helping work the land to support the home front, like a good German."

He finished the last knot and sat back, watching her. "How long have you been here?"

"Going on two years."

"How long do you think they will keep you here?"

She shrugged. "Since the war turned against us Henrich has been visiting less and less. I think the propaganda doesn't matter as much anymore. To be honest, part of me is expecting the doctor to have me executed before the Americans get here. I don't think an easy way out is what he has in mind for me. That's why I thought you were here to kill me that night."

Joe felt a sharp breath enter his lungs. "Really? All because you won't fucking behave?"

She closed her eyes, looking drained. "There was a lot riding on this program. The doctor's entire future is resting on it being a success."

"Is that why Schueller hates you? Because of this?"

Her hair fell over her shoulder as she shook her head. "He has a vague idea that I did something bad. He concluded himself that it must have been some sort of espionage. The doctor let him spread rumors around here about me. He didn't want me getting too comfortable here. And this place is so isolated that the rumors never go anywhere."

She went silent and he leaned back until he met the wall behind the cot. "That's it? That is what you were so afraid of telling me?"

She stiffened, so slightly that if he wasn't studying her so closely he would have missed it. "You hate Nazis. I was afraid of what you would think of me."

He frowned as he watched her. What she was telling him was the truth. He knew it from her guileless face even if she hadn't fucking cried. But the pieces weren't quite falling into place for him. Henrich, Schueller, this doctor…that all made sense. But the bigger _why_ bugged him. Why, out of all the loyal Nazis, was she chosen? Why can't she just be replaced? Why is one person so important to the propaganda of a government that doesn't tolerate dissension in the first place? And how did she get those scars?

What was she leaving out and _why_?

Then she leaned back too and he was distracted by the feeling of their arms brushing. The dark circles under her eyes had deepened and her skin looked wan, as if what she had said drained what little energy she had left.

His fingers tangled together as they rested on the lump of bandages around his middle. She had given him a start. Everything – his presence, their safety, what was going to happen after he was sewn up – was all so tenuous that he shouldn't expect her to spill every detail right away. Maybe there was a good reason to keep certain things from him. He hadn't exactly shown that he could remain evenly keeled so far. He should be grateful that at least she had put him mostly at ease with what she had revealed to him. It was much better than the dark ideas he suspected when she was tight lipped.

Another interrogation is going to get him nowhere. He had to earn her trust.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, looking over at her. She turned towards him and their faces were so close that a lump unexpected rose up in his throat.

God-fucking-dammit. He was turning into such a sap.

"Henrich probably took the food. We are out of luck until I can see Greta tomorrow."

Shaking his head, he forced himself to pull away from her and get up. "Didn't you see my ration tin in my gear?" Going over to his belt, he pulled out the can.

She sat up. "I didn't know what it was. The writing on the outside is English."

He began pulling on the tab to peel back the lid, deciding this was as good of an opportunity as any to lighten the fucking mood. "I'm going to warn you now – the food the American military gives out can barely be considered edible."

After a moment a weak smile passed across her face. "How bad can it be?"

He snorted, secretly relishing that she was humoring him. Maybe she didn't absolutely hate him. "You're optimistic. I have my suspicions that they've been using up the surpluses from the first fucking war on us. I swear I had crackers that expired in 1918 the other day."

"Are you saying I shouldn't use this as the standard for American cuisine?" Her voice sounded younger, closer to her actual age, when she wasn't so serious. He felt his lips twitch.

Popping off the lid, he looked inside. "Ah, shit."

"What?"

"It's ham and lima beans. The absolute fucking worst of the meals, of course."

"I've never had lima beans."

He tore open the pouch, the familiar smell instantly ruining his appetite. "Here. I'll go see if I can find a spoon upstairs. Give it a look and see if you really want to eat it."

She gingerly took the packet from him, curiously peering inside. Grabbing his flashlight, he scaled the ladder to the main floor.

Although the storm had dropped off lightning still flashed through the one window that had open curtains, illuminating the ruin of the kitchen in flashes of white. Picking his way through the disaster, he finally found a pile of silverware underneath a drawer that had been pulled free and dumped on the floor. Selecting a spoon that looked like it managed to not touch the ground, he turned and made his way back down to the cellar.

She was still looking at the dinner, an indecipherable expression on her face. Approaching her, he held out the spoon. "Want to try it?"

Juggling the packet to grab the spoon with her good hand, she looked unsure. "Don't you need to eat? How are you feeling?"

Seeing it start to slide from where she was balancing it in her lap, he grabbed the pouch and held it out for her to dig in. "I'm fine. I know you've only had a slice of bread and I'm pretty sure you gave me all the soup. So don't argue and eat."

As she took the first few bites he moved to carefully sit on the cot next to her, close enough so that she could still get the food but far enough away that nothing stupid risked coming out of his mouth. She seemed to be as thankful that they weren't at each other's throats as he was and he knew that the more relaxed she became with him the easier the answers he wanted would eventually come.

"How is it?" She was scarfing it down, but given how hungry she surely was she might not even be tasting it. That was probably for the best.

She thought as she swallowed. "Not bad."

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I've had worse," she capitulated, going back for more.

The question of under what circumstances was on the tip of his tongue but he bit it back, not wanting to tarnish the timid understanding between them. He stayed quiet until she finished, the packet now emptied. Crumpling it in his fist, he stood and made his way back to his gear. Rooting around the tin, he found the dry brick of cornbread that came with the dinner and settled back against the wall to tuck into it.

"I see you found the clothes." Her voice crossed over to him hesitantly and her feet scuffed against the floor.

He paused in his eating, surprised that she wanted to continue talking to him. "Yeah, I figured they were for me. Where did you get them?"

"The aid station."

"Really? Did you steal everything from there? You didn't happen to get a map of the front lines, did you?"

The side of her mouth rose in an amused half-smile. She knew he was being tongue-in-cheek. "No, they didn't have one laying around."

"Well, thanks for getting these anyway."

"You're welcome." They fell into silence as he took another bite. She fiddled with the knots on the splint.

"How do you know German?" He looked at her again and her expression, while still unsure, looked hopeful. Hopeful about what? That he would leave when he was finished?

"My parents emigrated from Austria in the first war. We didn't speak English at home."

She nodded. "Your parents, they support America in the war despite being _Volksdeutsche_?"

He paused, bread halfway to his mouth. "Well, my mother is dead and I don't think my father stays sober long enough to read the news, so I would guess they don't have an opinion." His tone sounded bitterer than he realized and her face dissolved into uneasiness as she picked at the splint some more. Fucking hell.

He brushed the last of the crumbs off his lap. "Sorry. I don't like talking about them. I doubt Hitler would have wanted them to come back anyway, being Jews."

She became rigid suddenly. "You know?"

He looked at her carefully, watching the alarm cross her features. "I remember our synagogue sponsoring refugees after _Kristallnacht_. By that time we weren't attending very often so I never spoke to them, but I heard some stories all the same."

"What stories?" She was leaning forward, listening to him intently. He scrutinized her, confused by her unexpected interest.

"The same sort of stuff that was reported in the papers. Businesses vandalized, homes burned to the ground… the general things that made it clear Jews aren't welcome here. It's one of the reasons I fucking hate Nazis."

She relaxed in one movement, her shoulders loosening as she let out a breath. "Oh."

"Why? What else happened?" he asked curiously, taking in her strange reaction.

Her gaze left his, focusing on the splint again. "The same sort of things you already know, I guess."

It was non-answer, but before he could ask further she looked at him again. "How long have you been in the war?"

"Since Normandy."

She bit her lip. "I can't imagine what that would be like. You must be glad it's almost over."

"It isn't a fucking picnic. You really think Germany is going to lose?"

"You being here kind of is proof of that, don't you think?"

He felt the corners of his mouth rise. "Yeah, I suppose you're right."

"I overheard the shopkeeper say that the military is having a hard time getting supplies."

"That's good news for us, I guess."

Another stretch of silence. She continued playing with the splint. This time he was the one to speak. "Schueller really did a number on your hand. Is it broken?"

She shook her head. "I'm making good progress. I think it's just really bruised."

"He has a strong grip."

"More like you have a stubborn jaw." This time her mouth rose upward. "I nearly fractured my hand and you barely have a mark."

He rubbed the faintly sore spot. "You gave a good go of it. Surprised me more than anything."

"Surprise wasn't what I was going for," she deadpanned.

This time he did smile. "It did kind of sting, if that helps."

"It doesn't. You must get punched a lot for that to barely effect you," she smirked.

"I've had my fare share," he shot back.

"I believe it." Now she was grinning too.

'Well, I'm glad you didn't shatter my jaw. Would have ruined my good looks."

Holy fucking hell, was he, Joseph Liebgott, teasing her? Had the world turned upside down? Had the Armageddon started?

She let out a soft chuckle. "Me too."

His gaze shot to hers, which for once met him head on, open and honest. The air seemed to still and they stopped, suspended by the sudden charge in their connection.

"Do you really want me to leave?" He breathed, the rapid ticking of his heart filling his ears.

She looked at him for a second longer before slowly shaking her head.

"No. No, I don't"


	20. Chapter 19

I don't have a lot of memories of my father. When I was young he traveled for business, although through the haze of time I don't actually recall what he did. It wasn't until the last months of his life that he spent more than a few days at a time at home with my mother and me. Even then, however, his presence was out of necessity to handle the turmoil engulfing our home and I hardly ever saw him.

With my childish impatience I found myself wanting him to leave again if only because at least when he returned from his trips he always had little presents for me to playfully fish out of his pockets. Gifts, I suppose, to make up for his absence in the bulk of my life. They were never anything more than a momentary indulgence or an inexpensive toy – sweet biscuits from England, lavender soap from France, woven dolls from Morocco. Things that would make me ecstatic with the typical fickleness of a little girl who cherished cheap figurines over expensive dresses. I looked forward to those treasures more so than anything I would receive on my birthday or Christmas because they meant that he was thinking about me while he was away and as a result I had something that was to me more exotic than anything else in Berlin.

The memory comes to me again as I watch Joseph's face, the smile breaking across his cheeks as extraordinary and wonderful as those trinkets I pulled out of my father's old tweed coat. It assuages the nudging guilt for leaving out parts of what happened. The story I patched together, while true, had enough holes that I was sure he was going to question me on it. When he instead didn't, when he trusted me by not pushing further, the remorse crashed into me with the weight of a boulder.

I tell myself that it's for his own good, that nothing could come of sharing the murkier details of why I am a prisoner here. But I still feel dirty. I still feel like I am somehow lying to him.

Maybe because in some ways I am, because I know the only way to keep him with me is to omit the things that would make him hate me the most. He cares about what happens to me, he said. In his own way he confessed to something that makes a warm fluttering expand in my chest.

Hope.

And I'm not about to let that be sullied by things done so long ago that he will never find out about them.

The food he gave me turns in my stomach as I realize the nameless thing taking shape between us will forever be hobbled by my secrecy. But that's just it isn't it? He cares about me. I care about him. But nothing will ever be titled as long as the war goes on outside and neither of us know what it going to happen in the next twenty-four hours, let alone in the rest of our lives. The information I withheld really has no place in the fragile bond we are trying to forge and if I am smart I will wait to see if we both survive this before I go about destroying everything.

I have already skirted the line once. When he went quiet, moving away from me to eat himself, part of me began worrying that he was ruminating over what I told him, that he was considering taking back what he had said to me. So I tried to make conversation to distract both of us from the story hanging heavily over our heads. And then I stupidly asked about his parents, which led to the even stupider question about them being _Volksdeutsche_ , which nearly had him digging for information on what happened to the Jews here.

But I salvaged the situation and now that smile is stretching across his handsome face and I feel like a kid again, having just discovered the prize. I know I've made the right decision. When I woke up I found myself irritated with him for what I took to be his salacious curiosity at my expense but now all I can do is feel myself relax against the wall, basking in the warmth of an expression I never thought he'd make.

We both fall quiet, looking at one another. I suppose if this was a normal situation questions of ' _What happens now_?' and ' _Where do we go from here_?' would naturally be next. But those sorts of things are not for us, not at this moment and time. So we instead intrinsically dodge the topics, content on just experiencing the here and now. In some ways I don't want to ponder the imminent changes in the next days, which will just bring the inevitability of him leaving and going back into battle while I wait here, unsure of anything but my own continued existence. At least if I know that if I'm still alive here then there is still that blessed hope. Hope for myself, hope for us. Something I have never told myself before now.

"How is your cheek feeling?" His voice breaks into my thoughts and I focus back on him. The smile is gone but his face is missing the hardness I had come to know, the rigid edges warning everyone to stay away. Instead as he looks at me a certain softness marks his expression, a concession that underneath the ruthless exterior there is still a man inside capable of caring for someone like me.

My cheek is numb and I carefully pass my fingers over it. The skin is swollen and warm to the touch. "I'm sure it looks worse that it is."

His lips tighten. "You've really been put through the fucking wringer these past few days."

The general ache that courses through me proves he's not wrong. "Likewise. At least I wasn't unconscious for two days."

He huffs in agreement before becoming quiet, looking contemplative. "I thought I was dying, to be honest," he murmurs.

"You almost did."

Jaw tightening, he looks away. "It wasn't good. I had flashbacks…saw things I hoped to never see again. I was sure I was being punished by God or something." For a brief moment his face falls and he looks so anguished that just seeing it causes my heart to clench painfully in my chest.

"Joseph…" I say softly.

His expression clears, closing the torment back inside, and he turns back towards me. "Joe. Call me Joe."

"Joe. I'm sorry that you had to come here. I'm sorry that you have gone through those things."

"Eh, it's not your fault. Not unless you convinced Hitler to invade Poland." The teasing is back and he smirks. His eyes, though, are still haunted with things so out of my depth that I can't begin to imagine what it has been like for him since he landed in France.

"Have you been hurt before? I saw your neck-"

"Yeah, in Holland. We were on a patrol and got ambushed. Caught a piece of a grenade." The words come out nonchalantly and he picks at a loose thread on the trousers.

I feel my stomach drop at the admission. It was likely that his injury was caused by my side, but to hear him admit to it so casually is like a kick in the gut. A grenade. A German grenade nearly killed him. Suddenly the gulf between us seems unpassable. Outside of here our respective governments are trying to wipe each other off the map and yet we are seeking to start something that is certainly not going to last. What am I doing? Why am I setting myself up for devastating failure?

His eyes meet mine in the warm glow of the lamp and I find myself wanting to burst into tears. I am doing this because I can't help myself. I am doing this because, due to him, over the last few days I have realized that there is a chance for me.

"Are you okay?"

I nod, not wanting to spoil the moment with my doubts. "Just tired. I think I am going to go to bed."

I go to carefully lift myself off the cot. His boots thump against the floor and a second later I feel his arm slip around my waist, helping me up.

"Can you get yourself up the ladder?" he asks as he guides me over.

"Yes," I gulp, nerves firing at the feeling of his form next to mine.

"Okay. Take my flashlight. It'll be easier to handle than the lamp." His warmth leaves me and he grabs the device from one of his bags.

Our fingers brush as he passes it to me and I can't help but notice how much closer he stands next to me now, close enough that I have to look up to see his face.

He hesitates as he gazes down at me, his eyes flickering over me. The fingers on one his hands tighten into a fist before relaxing.

"Goodnight Caroline," he says, his breath brushing over my skin.

"Goodnight Joe." I murmur back, not moving a centimeter.

For a moment I think he is going to lean closer but instead he clears his throat, taking a step away. "I'll see you in the morning."

I didn't realize I have been holding my breath. "Yes, in the morning," I repeat and turn towards the ladder, hiding my dazed expression from him. He says nothing else but I feel his eyes follow me, making my skin tingle, until I'm out of sight.

* * *

 _It must be past midnight and my room is dark save for the slice of yellow light from the streetlamp outside the window. I burrow in my covers, wide awake, listening to the noises downstairs. The hushed, rapid whispers, the soft creaks of feet on the floorboards, the door to the basement opening and closing. I want to go see what is happening, but I know I'm not allowed to leave my bed. "Special visitors," my mother calls them, "who don't want anyone else to know they are here."_

 _I mustn't tell, no matter what._

* * *

 _The red bricks paving the schoolyard are dark and slick with rain. The puddles creep through my Mary Janes, soaking my stockings. The other girls clump together to giggle about something, ignoring me. I don't mind and stare at the thick gray clouds overhead._

 _"Caroline," he says and I look to find him beside me. "What are you doing?"_

 _I shrug. The girls laugh louder._

 _"They are talking about you. They say you are weird." His face creases with dismay._

 _"So?" I murmur, looking at the sky again._

 _"So? I heard my mother talking about you too. She thinks it's strange that you don't have any friends."_

 _"I've got you."_

 _"She also says your family is odd. That your parents never leave the house anymore."_

 _"They do leave."_

 _"When?"_

You mustn't say anything, Caroline.

 _"I dunno. While I'm at school, I guess."_

 _"Mother says-"_

 _"Maybe your mother should mind her own business." I snap, turning away. "Stop asking me so many questions."_

 _He is beside me again. "I'm sorry," he says regretfully, kicking at the bricks. "Please don't be mad at me."_

 _I feel myself sigh. "I'm not."_

 _We are silent for a few moments and the rain starts coming down again. The girls scream and run for the building._

 _"You would tell me if something is going on, wouldn't you Caroline?"_

 _I look at him, his blue eyes large on his face._

 _"Of course."_

* * *

 _The door bangs open, crashing into the wall. I jerk from my sleep, taking in the blurry form of my mother._

 _"Caroline. You must get up." She pulls the blanket off of me. I shiver._

 _"Why?" I mumble, blearily blinking. She doesn't seem to hear me._

 _"Come now, hurry up!" There are footsteps down the hall and shadows race along the walls. I feel her pull me to my feet._

 _The figure of my father fills the doorway, a bundle in his arms. I see the vague outline of people behind him, but their faces are shadowed. Without looking at me he goes to my bed to deposit his charge and from behind my mother's housecoat I see a jumble of legs and arms._

 _Two others follow him in, filling the tiny space. A man and a woman, both thin with hollowed cheeks. The woman is silently crying._

 _My father moves away from my bed and I see the slight form of a girl, maybe a few years younger than me. Her eyes are sunken and closed and sweat dots her forehead._

 _Suddenly my mother's hand is on my back, propelling me through the doorway, down the stairs, and into the parlor._

 _"You will need to sleep out here for now, honey. It shouldn't be for too long."_

 _"Who is she?"_

 _She thinks for a moment. "Someone who needs our help." She tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. "Remember what you do?"_

 _"Don't say anything."_

 _"That's right, sweetheart. "_

 _She leaves me then, disappearing back up the stairs. The parlor is quiet save for the ticking of the mantle clock. I go to the sofa and curl up on the pillows. Every now and then the ceiling groans as someone moves but otherwise everything is still._

 _My heartbeat sounds in my ears and I push my head into the pillow, making it louder._

 _Boom boom._

 _Boom boom._

 _Boom boom._

* * *

"Caroline!"

My eyes snap open and I shoot up in my bed. My ribs cry out and I choke back a gasp.

 _BOOM BOOM BOOM_

Light flashes from behind the curtains and as the noise dissipates a distant wail filters in from the outside.

 _Sirens._

"It's an air raid! _"_ Joe's voice bellows from down the hall and I hear his boots pound rapidly towards my room.

 _BOOM BOOM_

I throw off the blanket and go for my robe. My fingers just touch the fabric when an earth shaking crash rattles the house, throwing me off my feet and onto the floor. The window explodes and I shriek, throwing my arm up against the showering glass.

" _Caroline!"_ My door is thrown open with a clatter and I feel strong hands under my arms, lifting me upwards. I regain my footing and in the flashing light I can see his face, pale and determined.

"We need to get to the cellar!" he shouts.

I grab my shoes and robe, throwing both on, and clamber over the broken glass towards the door. He follows beside me as we enter the darkness of the hall.

 _BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM_

The explosions rock the air, seemingly coming from all directions. I feel myself shaking not just from the trembling earth, but from my own frayed nerves. The battle is starting again. Joseph is going to have to leave.

A loud whistle sounds from above and I'm shoved to the ground, Joe's weight landing heavily on top of me. His fingers tangle in my hair as he covers my head and a split second later a blast rips through the house, making my ears pop and a wave of dust fly over us. I struggle to breathe and dissolve into a coughing fit. Before I know it I am being yanked back up and pulled against him, my feet struggling to find purchase as he hauls us to the cellar door. He slides to a stop just as we reach to opening. Another whistle sounds and I find myself airborne, falling down into the black hole. My good hand flies out frantically to find a rung of the ladder and my shoulder pops as I arrest my descent. The door slams shut above me and Joe's bulk collides into mine, sending us both careening to the floor. His hand finds my arm at the last second and he pulls me upward. With a hard grunt he lands on his back and with an equally loud groan I fall on his chest.

We lay there for the moment, the booms and bangs still vibrating through the floor. The rapid rise and fall of his torso rocks me and I continue to cough despite the agony it causes in my ribs, trying to clear my lungs.

Another earsplitting crash sounds upstairs, shaking dirt onto us from the groaning floorboards. I instinctively duck and cover my head in case they give way and Joseph moves under me, sitting up and pulling us over to the wall.

"Are you hurt?" His voice is gravely and his lips brush against my ear.

Another deep rumble rolls through the ground and the house shudders.

"No." This is worse than the first bombardment and I hate it. I hate that Joe will have to go out and try to live through it and I hate that I will be trapped here waiting to see if I'll be just another civilian casualty.

I want the Americans to win. I hate that I have to wonder if we both will live to see it.

The cellar is pitch black and I can't tell anything but Joe's presence next to me. My coughing subsides as we sit in silence, listening to the commotion outside. It feels like hours before the rumbling cuts off as suddenly as it began, letting an uneasy quiet descend around us.

"Do you think it is over?" I ask, whispering as though speaking will disrupt the pause in the explosions.

He shifts. "This wave is, at least. If the storm has completely cleared then there could be more. I'm sure they want everything flattened before we attack again."

I nod even though he can't see me. The silence extends as we wait, ears perked for the tell-tale drone of plane engines.

There is nothing.

He sighs. "You should try to get some sleep. It won't be safe to go upstairs again tonight."

"Okay," I respond as I draw my knees into my chest. I'm not sure if sleep is going to be possible. I have a feeling Joe isn't going to even try.

"How is your side?" I ask, turning towards where I think his face is. "Can you tell if it's bleeding from the fall?"

"I think it is fine. Hasn't hurt much today at all. You can sew it up tomorrow if we don't get blown up tonight."

I bite my lip. I will stitch it up and the Americans will attack and I will be alone again. I rest my forehead against my kneecaps, dreading the unavoidable conclusion to our time here. "When will you go?"

He doesn't answer immediately and I wish I could see his face. "I'm not sure. When the battle reaches here, I guess."

I don't ask him any other questions and he falls mute next to me. The cold seeps through my thin robe and an involuntary shiver shakes through me, jostling my still smarting ribs. There is a scrape of clothing and the sound of footsteps traveling towards the cot. Moments later the scratchy wool of the blanket catches my legs.

"I can't see a fucking thing and my matches are somewhere in my gear. I'm not about to sit on you am I?"

I mummer in the negative and I hear his hand scratching against the wall as he guides himself down, tossing the blanket over us. He should sleep on the cot. He needs his rest. But I say nothing as his body aligns with mine again, sharing the warmth captured by the blanket. I wait for it to still my trembling, but I can't seem to stop. I thought I had a few more days. I thought we could get farther before he goes off and risks getting killed. I picture myself as I was, moving through the motions of living while surrounded by the infernal roar of silence. Once he is gone I know it would be foolhardy to expect him to come back anytime soon. So I will be stuck here, waiting once more. _Always_ waiting. What if the Americans retreat again? What if I'm stuck here forever? Henrich will return. I will have to tell him no. And what he is going to do as a result…

What if Joe _dies_? He could be shot. His luck with grenades could finally evaporate. An artillery shell could tear him to pieces. And I would never know. I would just be stuck here, counting the days again. Waiting, _waiting_ , _WAITING-_

The arm that touches mine moves and then I feel it cross behind the back of my neck, his hand skimming my opposite shoulder.

"Hey," he tells me softly and it is then that I realize that I am shaking uncontrollably again, tears streaming down my face. I don't want him to go. I don't want him to leave me.

The pressure on my shoulder increases and I give in, wordlessly I curling into him and taking solace in the warm smell of his chest. He says nothing as the tears soak the linen of his shirt, but his arm tightening around me tells me he knows. The fingers of his other hand rake through my hair in a soothing gesture that just makes me cling to him harder. His heart thumps rhythmically underneath my ear, catching my focus as a reminder that for now he is alive and here.

"Get some sleep. It will be alright." He doesn't know that. I don't know that. But for the moment I believe him and his steadily beating heart, sliding my eyes closed.

For the first time in years the dreams don't come to torture me and I just…sleep.

* * *

 **Please review! Thanks for reading!**


	21. Chapter 20

He had never held someone like this before.

Fatigue nudged at him, but he forced his eyes to stay open. There was probably going to be a second bombing run and, while he being conscious for it certainly wouldn't improve their chances of survival, the soldier in him wanted someone to be on watch anyway and Caroline was in no condition to do so.

When her shaking finally subsided and her breathing deepened he felt himself sink against the wall, savoring in the warmth and scent of her on him. Even though he was blinded by the darkness he could tell from stroking her hair that her face was turned upwards towards his on his chest. Before he let his uncertainty get to him his hand carefully wandered over it, delicately touching the slope of her nose and the curve of her chin. A sigh emerged from her but if she was awake she didn't say a word. Maybe the blackness made him brave, but his mouth brushed against her hairline in a gesture that just days ago would have struck him as fucking sentimental. Now it didn't seem to be at all.

She didn't want him to leave. His presence had made her one more incident away from being goddamn crippled, but she was still upset over the possibility of him going back. The prospect of returning to the grinding bloodbath wasn't thrilling to him either, even more so now that he had to fucking leave whatever _this_ was behind. He didn't have a choice but he knew once he was back to safety he was going to spend his waking hours worrying about her, especially if they couldn't take this fucking piece of Germany on the second try. Then he would be hopelessly stuck on the other side of the line, imagining the worst. Henrich could come back while he was gone, or a bomb could land on the house, or she could get caught in the crossfire of battle. There were so many terrible things that could happen he was concerned he would break rank just to run back here and make sure she made it out in one piece.

Goddamn. Things had changed so swiftly and completely for him that he felt like a fucking new person. The boys are going to think the Nazis had brainwashed him or some shit. He always saw his role in the war as a simple one – kill as many of the enemy as he could to win them victory as quickly as he could. During boot camp the brass always gave speeches about loftier ideals that were worth fighting for: freedom, democracy, family back home… all that maudlin bulllshit that he never really understood. But now the prospect of having something to lose, of having a reason to live besides not wanting to die, shifted how the war looked to him in such a way that the idea of going back to being a merciless killing machine became as impossible as him giving Sobel a big fucking kiss on the cheek. There would be no hesitation in pulling the trigger, of course, but now he had a purpose to keep him from being the reckless bastard he had been thus far and to take into account his own survival for once.

He leaned his head back, feeling her breath graze his neck. She had been shaking and crying and he told her everything was going to be okay. He didn't have a fucking clue why he said it. If there was an emptier reassurance he could give he didn't know it. Hell, maybe he was trying to make them both feel better. He felt as though he was at the crossing of two paths: one led to a fate in which they both survive and figure out what to do from there… and the other which ended in total demise for one or both of them. Wishing for the former, especially out loud, was a momentary balm on the near-crushing uncertainty plaguing both of their thoughts.

Even now it helped and he burrowed further into the warm cocoon they created under the blanket. His mind drifted, but instead of the usual spate of dark and foreboding feelings he found himself thinking about what would happen if they did make it. For the first time he thought of what it would be like to go back home. He usually avoided such things, figuring it would depress him just as much as the constant reminder that he would probably leave this place in a body bag. But the pictures in his head had him returning with Caroline by his side and for once it did not seem so bleak.

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep until Caroline shifted in his lap and his eyes snapped open. The blackness still greeted him and above him everything was silent. He didn't have a clue how much time had passed – he needed to get upstairs. If it was daylight then the offense could start and he wanted to be ready.

She must have been exhausted. He felt her flinch as his hands moved under her but she still didn't awaken, even as he gently laid her back down onto the ground. Tucking the blanket around her, he turned and felt around until his fingertips landed on the rough wood of the ladder. Pulling himself upward, he quietly pushed to door up and slipped out onto the main floor.

 _Holy fuck._

Dawn had just crested the horizon, the pale light spilling over the complete disaster before him. The front window was gone, now nothing more than a collection of glass on the floor, and the curtains fluttered in the breeze. The plaster of the walls had crumbled with the concussions of the ordinance, leaving deep jagged cracks webbing up into the ceiling and turning the floor white with dust.

But that was nothing compared to the kitchen.

It was already a mess from Henrich's men, but now the fucking entire eastern wall was collapsed and crumpled into the yard. Like a three legged chair the ceiling sagged into the missing support, low enough that he could reach up and touch it. The sink basin was gone. The cabinets and their contents were gone. The only things that survived were the stone hearth, the breakfast table, and the collection of supplies on the floor now covered with dirt and debris.

Through the new hole he could see the crater where the barn used to be and stepped through the mess to get to it. Nothing but a bunch of rotting boards remained, their ends charred and smoking. He was lucky that the rain had made everything wet, preventing a fire that would have drawn people here. Looking past it he saw another, older crater that had been caved in during last night's bombardment. Twice, then, she had almost been blown to goddamn pieces.

A few of the tools that had been inside escaped unscathed and now lay in the mud. He picked up an ax and was wiping the grime off of it when a glint caught the edge of his vision. He turned towards the woods.

Patches of the forest had been flattened in the strafing, thinning the tree line at the back of the property. Something was catching the light from maybe a hundred yards back, creating a mirror-like shine in the distance. It wasn't moving and he didn't hear anything coming from that direction. He turned back towards the house.

It was risky to venture off by himself. But she probably wasn't going to wake up for a bit and would only worry if she knew. And whatever was back there hadn't been there before the bombing. It had a direct line of sight on the house and could be a threat. He looked down at his civilian clothes. If he came across the enemy he could fake it.

He had to go find out what that was.

His gun would have identified him as American as quickly as his uniform so he left it downstairs. Keeping the ax so he had something besides his knife, he began to hike to the back of the property.

The house was built on a hill and as he walked the ground dipped until he couldn't see his target any longer. As he went from the yard into the fallow field behind the house the tall, damp grass smacked against his shins, leaving the wool soggy and itchy. He paused as he reached the tree line, the branches of the evergreens brushing along his arms. He waited, listening, but there was only the sound of the wind. His hands naturally wrapped around the handle of the ax as if it were a gun, squaring it off against his chest. Carefully placing his feet to avoid any snapping twigs he pressed onward, silently making his way towards where he thought the shiny beacon was ahead.

He entered a clearing made recently judging from the broken trees scattered across the ground. Unlike the ones that had been shattered by the bombs, however, these looked like they had been toppled over and pushed down. Deep ruts marked the damp earth like something large had scraped away the landscape, ending at a shallow ravine where he figured his destination was.

He slowed as he approached, his grip tightening on the ax. A large tree stood at the edge and he pressed his back against it, using it for cover as he cautiously peeked around to get a look at what he was up against.

It was the fuselage of a B-17. The front of the nose was missing, leaving a ripped hole of metal and wires where the pilots and the bombardier would have been. The wings also had been blown off, leaving just the neutered, greenish-brown metal tube foundered in the muddy crevasse. The rising sun flashed off the two windows near the tail that were pointed towards the sky, creating the glimmer that caught his attention.

"Hello?" he called out softly. Speaking English was a risk, but getting his ass shot off by a nervous airman who managed to stay alive was a bigger danger.

There was no response. He couldn't tell which damage was caused by the anti-aircraft fire and which by the crash. There wasn't any debris around it, suggesting the fuselage fell by itself and bounced down there after the plane was ripped apart in the sky. That also meant that there probably weren't any survivors.

He came out from behind the tree and warily made his way closer, the smell of fuel and burnt insulation filling his nose. The white star on the tail had been nearly scraped off in its slide through the trees, but enough paint was still there to mark it as American.

His eyes darted back and forth as he came upon it, but there were no signs of life. The hulk lay on its side, exposing its underbelly. The hole in the front was too jagged for him to squeeze through, so he was left scrambling up the dented metal exterior to reach the side door on top.

"Anyone still alive?" he tried again, sticking his head inside. The waist gunners were also gone, most likely sucked out during the freefall.

Which left the fucking navigator and flight engineer. Godammit. God-fucking-dammit.

They were still strapped in their seats, their parachutes tucked securely in the packs connected to their flight suits. It didn't look like they even got a chance to try to unbuckle and jump. If the plane was spinning they were probably unconscious before it hit the ground. Within their harnesses their bodies were oddly situated, shattered by the impact.

Swinging his feet around, he pushed himself inside, sliding down until he landed on the side of the navigator's console. The man was slumped over, his gray face resting against his chest at angle telling Joe his neck was broken.

"Sorry buddy," Joe murmured, reaching under the man's chin to pull open the jacket. After eight hellish months in combat the sight and touch of the lifeless person didn't faze him and he fished around until he found the chain of dog tags. "If I manage to get out of here alive I'll make sure you both make it home, alright?"

Climbing over him to find his next foothold in this jungle gym of an interior, Joe made his way to the engineer. His position was closer to where the pilots had been and as a result the man took some of the blow that ripped off the nose. Joe's hands became sticky with dark, coagulating blood as he found those dog tags too and ripped off the second tag, stuffing it with the other one in his pocket.

Turning to make his way back out, his eyes fell on the navigator's desktop. Maps, tons of them, pinned to the cork surface and tangled together from the velocity of the crash.

Hopping back over, he began to pull them free and gather them up, leaving red handprints smeared on the white paper. Hopefully one could give him an idea of where the American positions were. Some of them looked like they contained sensitive information, so he grabbed them all and tucked them under his arm.

Towards the tail there were several black bags held by netting against what had been the wall but was now the ceiling. He remembered them from his jump training – survival packs for downed crews that contained food and first aid kits.

His hands were getting full. Climbing back onto the navigator's console, he heaved the ax upward out the door where he heard it clang against the side and slide down to the ground. The maps were stuffed in the back of his waistband before he leapt out to grab one of the welded metal ribs encircling the cabin. A dull arrow of pain shot through his middle, but it wasn't bad enough to make him let go. Digging his fingertips into the lip of the beam, he kicked his feet sideways to find purchase on the metal grate opposite him that had been the floor. He maneuvered himself upwards and over towards the bags, breathing heavily from the exertion after spending so many days recuperating. Finally getting close enough, he reached out and latched onto the netting, letting himself hang for a moment to rest. This damn thing reminded him of the dumbass obstacle courses Sobel made them run.

The sun was getting stronger outside the door. Caroline was going to be up soon and he needed to get back. Grabbing his knife from his boot, he began slicing at the rope holding the bags until it finally gave way. The sudden slack dropped him several feet and the bags tumbled out, landing below him. Dropping to down to them, he sheathed the knife and tossed the bags out much like he had done the ax. After looking around one last time he climbed up, reaching the punctured metal doorframe, and lifted himself out.

Catching a breather on top, he saw that the sunlight was bouncing off the thick glass of the windows more so as it rose. Someone else was bound to see it. Sliding down the side of the fuselage, he found the ax amongst the broken bits of trees and lugged it back up. Using the handle he smashed the windows in. Hopefully it would buy them some more time.

He was sweating by now despite the cool air. Finding his way down again, he shoved the roll of maps into one of the bags and slid the straps across his chest, layering them on his back. Fuck, they were heavy. Snatching the ax, he trudged up the side of the ravine and started to make his way back.

* * *

She was awake. Awake and sweeping for some reason.

As he entered the yard he watched her maneuver around the fragments of her home, a broom balanced between her hand and splint. Given the disarray and destruction it wasn't making a bit of difference. But she didn't stop until he stepped through the gaping hole into the kitchen. Her head snapped towards him, her eyes large but her expression inscrutable. The bruise on her cheek had turned purple overnight and dirt smeared her face.

"You're back," she said simply. Her gaze darted down to his red hands. "Are you hurt?"

"No," he replied, moving to unload the bags on the table. "A bomber was downed last night. Part of it landed back in the woods. I went to take a look at it."

She shifted to peer past him towards the direction he had come from. "Are there any survivors?"

He shook his head. "I found these, though." He gestured towards the pile. "They have food, water, and first aid kits. It should tide you over until you can get out of here."

Not looking at the bags, she just nodded and went back to sweeping. Well, that was puzzling. He wasn't sure what sort of reaction he expected from her. She was acting awfully calm for waking up alone and having him come back with blood on his hands. He found himself leaning against the table, arms crossed as he watched her.

"Why are you doing that?" he asked.

"Doing what?" She didn't look at him.

"Sweeping."

"Because the floor is dirty."

He felt irritation bite at him. She was being fucking cagey. "Yeah, I noticed. However, if you haven't realized, the entire fucking wall is missing."

"I know."

"So I would think sweeping isn't really solving the problem."

"Well I've got to start somewhere."

"Start what?"

She stopped, her shoulders stiff. Something was wrong. "Start putting my home back together."

"I don't think you can rebuild a wall, Caroline." His tone had slipped into his natural haughtiness before he could stop it and he realized his mistake as she tensed.

"You know what? You're right," she spit out, turning towards him with her eyes flashing. "What am I doing, trying to salvage what I can from this?" She tossed the broom out the hole, where it landed with a clatter on the remnants of the wall. "It's not like I am going to have to keep living here, waiting for something to either kill me or you."

He stayed where he was, staring at her. "What's wrong, Caroline?"

She gave him a fake, exaggerated smile that immediately raised his hackles. "Why should anything be wrong? My house is about to topple over into a pile of rubble, you are about to go and risk your life, and I will be alone here, uselessly sitting in my cellar like always. What's so bad about that?"

"It won't be for long," he said guardedly. "We just have to do our best to live through it."

That did not seem to be what she wanted to hear and she scoffed, " _Look_ at this place, Joe! Spare me your patronization." Her voice rose several octaves.

"Why are you getting so angry at me?" he shot back, his face getting hot.

" _Because_! You seem to couldn't care less about what happens here or to me."

He felt his expression jerk at the accusation. "What the hell makes you say that? You think I don't give damn? What the fuck was going on last night if I don't care?" She was distancing herself from him again and he felt his defenses shoot up automatically, trying to spare him the pain of whatever end she was getting at.

"You tell me – you were the one who was gone this morning."

He took a deep breath. So that's what this was about. "I didn't plan on going anywhere. I was just taking a look around and happened to see the plane." He tried to keep his voice calm.

Her face bunched up into a look of disbelief. "So you just took off?"

"I thought it would be better if you didn't know."

" _How_ would that be better?"

"I didn't want you to _worry!_ " His anger ticked up again as she kicked the now-dented washbasin, aggravation making her face red.

"Bullshit, Joe! You thought I wouldn't worry when I woke up by myself, with no sign of you? Really?"

She was cursing again. Either he was rubbing off on her or she was really pissed. He clenched his jaw. "What else did you think was happening?"

Her shoulders lifted in a half-hearted shrug. "Who knows?"

He dropped his arms, taking a step forward. "You really trust me that little?"

"I've known you less than a week." Her voice lowered to a near whisper, but it knifed through him with a sharpness that stunned him.

There was a thick beat of silence. She wasn't looking at him again, instead staring out into the yard. He knew she was scared. He knew that what was going here was purely a defense mechanism made by someone who hadn't experienced anything like this before. But in many ways he was in the same untried boat and the ice couldn't cover him fast enough to quell the cutting pain in his chest.

"That certainly didn't bother you when you slept in my lap last night," he spat harshly. She recoiled and turned to him.

"You basically pulled me onto you," she snapped, trembling with fury as she stalked over to point a finger in his face. "So don't you dare try to imply anything untoward."

His answer was reflexive and automatic. "Who said I was implying?"

He couldn't stop himself. He didn't know why. The habit was so ingrained that his brain came up with the words and his mouth shot them out before he knew what was happening.

Then his head snapped to the side, his cheek stinging in what was probably a red outline of her hand. Normally the action of anyone hitting him elicited an immediate reprisal but now he just stood there, listening to her ragged breathing in front of him.

It had been easy to slip back into asshole mode. Deceptively so. He might as well be in a nightclub on leave, crushing the hope of any woman trying to weasel a dance or date out of him. Get a drink thrown in his face and the scene would be complete.

But this wasn't any woman. This was Caroline. It was supposed to be different. She had upset him and he responded the way he always had with everyone else – by throwing insults at her until she hurt as much as he did. And it seemed to only take one, although even he realized it was a low blow. Shame sunk into him, unfamiliar and sour. Shit. He didn't want to be like this, not with her.

The slap seemed to sober her up as much as it had him.

"I-I'm sorry." She moved to back away but his arm darted out to grasp hers. She went rigid under his touch, compounding the dejection welling up inside him. He dropped it back down to his side, figuring space would help the most now.

"Don't be," he murmured, moving his head back around to look at her. Her eyes were the size of dinner plates and her chin was quivering ever so slightly. "I deserved it."

They stood watching each other guardedly. She had changed back into her normal clothes, he realized. "How long have you been up?"

"A couple of hours."

So right after he left. Fuck. "I should have let you know I what I doing. I didn't mean for this to happen."

Her expression pulled down into a troubled frown. "When I realized I was alone I thought you had left to go to the line. The fact you didn't say goodbye meant that you weren't coming back and that I….this…" She blinked rapidly.

"I wouldn't do that, Caroline."

She didn't seem to hear him and the words tumbled out of her mouth as though that a dam had been released. "Then I saw that your things were still here and I got worried that you had come up here and someone found you. I thought you were arrested and I didn't know what to do. I debated going to down to Herr Schueller's office but then I realized that if I saw you or what they were doing to you…." She trailed off again. "I was sweeping because I was afraid that if I didn't do _something_ I was going to go insane."

She looked down to the floor and he decided it was safe to move towards her.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot. "When you came back and there was blood… For a moment I feared the worse and thought I was going to have to watch you almost bleed to death again. Then you were so nonchalant about it. Just like last night when you told me everything is going to be okay. Do you realize what we are up against? Do you thing the odds are going to work out in our favor? It's like you don't care."

"I do care."

"I've thought a lot about last night and I've concluded that you were being kind to me because you felt guilty or thought that you were indebted to me or you just wanted to know my story," she continued to ramble. "But I don't want you to lie now. If this is over the moment you go tell me now so then I won't be waiting for something that isn't going to happen. I'm not stupid. I realize that you have been away from home a long time and have been cooped up with a woman for the past several days and that can cause – "

"No, that's not – " he tried to cut in, closing the distance between them. She was going down the wrong road.

"– certain feelings to arise that may not be grounded in reality. When I thought you had left without a word I was so angry at myself for being vulnerable and I'd rather not go through that again if I can help –"

"Caroline –" He was in front of her now but she still kept her face stubbornly down.

"- it. Because after all it's only been five days and I think I have read too much into what is going on here. So I apologize if –"

He ducked, crashing his mouth into hers and swallowing her barrage of words. He felt her jump, her back hitting the wall behind her, and a noise of surprise vibrated where her chest pressed against his. He started to pull back, wondering if he had misjudged her, but then she was kissing him back and his heart started pounding in his chest.

Her fist bunched the front of his shirt and his body reacted automatically. One of his hands encircled her waist while the other buried itself in her long blonde strands. She tasted just as wonderful as he imagined and as her body molded itself against his he didn't give a shit if Easy Company kicked the door down right then. He wasn't going fucking anywhere.

But then he was shoved back without warning. Startled, he looked at her as she leaned against the wall for support, lips swollen and hair in disarray.

"I am not a whore," she said in an uneven voice. "You can't do this to me if you are just going to throw it in my face later, Joe."

He blinked, regaining his awareness as her words hit him. Why did he have to say that? What in God's name possessed him to fucking do that?

"I'm an asshole," he managed to say.

"I know," she responded without hesitation and despite everything a smile twitched his lips.

"Then you get me more than most people do."

"What does that mean?"

He paused for a second, his thoughts scrambled from the kiss. "I've never done this before. I'm not a nice person and I'm not the sort that…connects with other people easily."

"Why?"

He sighed, hand tugging through his hair. His turn had been coming, but why did it have to be fucking now? She looked at him steadily and he began to choke out the words.

"Growing up, I was a loner. I was the only Jewish kid in my grade and a short, weak thing too. My mother died when I was young and my father spent all his free time at the bar, so I didn't really have anyone. It wasn't easy and I got in a lot of fights with the other boys. As you would expect, that meant I never really had the chance to learn how to be the type of guy that you are probably used to."

"You mean Henrich? I don't want you to be like Henrich."

He gave her a soft smile. "No, not that bad. But I've never really troubled myself with being friendly to other people. Then I joined the army and found a brotherhood amongst the men there and I thought I could begin to figure out how. But things changed when we dropped into France and started fighting."

He swallowed. "Do you know how many men I've killed? Do you know how I did it?" He didn't wait for a response. "I resigned myself to the fact that I wasn't going to survive. When you stop caring about your own life it makes it easier to take others. And I did – you saw the butt of my rifle. I kept score like the heartless piece of shit I became. But, still, that doesn't mean I stopped being human. I considered myself dead, but the pain of watching the guys in my unit – the guys I had been with since I swore in – get shot or blown up day after day wore me down. The hell of battle – the screaming, the gunfire, the blasts – became a fucking broken record and I almost wished the Germans would finally get me and end my misery. So then what became the point of trying to be pleasant? I isolated myself, warning anyone off with my attitude. That way I wouldn't have to care and I could stop the agony of burying my friends."

He said too much. He saw it in the way she turned from him, her gaze going to the hole and the yard beyond again. The glimpse of the darkness in him had pushed her away. A burning behind his eyes, a feeling hadn't had in over ten years, made him realize that he was invested in this more so than he predicted. "I'm sorry, Caroline. I was cruel because I got scared that I was going to lose someone all over again," he whispered, steeling himself for her rejection. Whatever happened, he told himself, he wasn't going to lash out at her again.

She was biting at her fingernail, appearing to be deeply in thought.

"What changed?" she finally asked.

"What do you mean?"

"What made you decide to start caring? To try to not be an asshole?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets to stop them from fidgeting. That was the big question. He was going to have to lay it on the line. He kept his gaze on his shoes to hide his face.

"You did. I don't know how, but… you did."

He held his breath in the stifling silence. A scuffing noise rang in his ears and he saw her shoes enter the circle of his vision just before her hand lightly touched his chin. He looked up, meeting those mesmerizing eyes. She slowly closed the distance between them and with the touch of her lips he knew then that if anything could finally break him it was her.

* * *

 **That was a marathon chapter! Thanks for reading. Please review!**


	22. Chapter 21

**Hi everyone! This chapter is a little late, but pretty long.**

 **emilywd and guest: Wow! Thanks for the compliment! It really motivates me to keep writing when you guys are so kind.**

 **HeroesofWar: I think I have found a good pacing groove over the last few chapters. Please let me know what you think moving forward. They are getting out of the cellar soon!**

 **Luckylily: That is what I was going for. If I was going to make him such a huge jerk in the first few chapters, why would he be completely different now? He's bound to have relapses :)**

 **Missavic34 and Bob: thank you for the support! I am, for one, glad they finally did it. And it only took twenty chapters, ha!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"You sure you can do this?"

I nod, adjusting my one-handed grip on the wood as I squat on the floor.

"Okay. On three."

He counts down and I rise, hoisting the shelving unit upwards. A bolt of pain runs up my side, but it is already dulling with time. A bruise, like Joe said.

He is beside me, bearing the majority of the weight as we pull it back into a standing position. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. Trying to put the house back into working order has caused him to shed the stiff cotton button-up, exposing the strong lines of his arms with the short sleeves of his t-shirt.

Ducking my head to cover the warmth in my cheeks, I look at the mess on the floor. Upstairs everything had been covered in plaster dust and dirt but down here it was mostly just dumped into a pile. I feel Joe stoop next to me when I start to make my way through it, searching for the only items that I hope made it out in one piece. He seems to know what I'm looking for without asking and his hands join mine in the mess, gingerly picking through the jumble of broken jars, torn sheets, and general other detritus the old owners left down here.

I find my watch first, underneath the newspaper I bought what seems like weeks ago. The comb is beside it, still unbroken.

But I can't find the pin.

I chew on the inside of my cheek as I keep looking, pushing back the dismay that it has been shattered into a million pieces. "I can't find it," I hear myself mutter, my hands moving faster.

"Keep looking," he replies, his deep voice cutting through the growing panic in my mind. For the second time today I find myself trying to take deep breaths to keep my thin grip on my sanity. At least now the lamp fills the room with light. It is much easier to fight off the demons when I am not stumbling around alone in the dark.

When he came back my relief at seeing him was nearly extinguished by the anger that coupled with the realization that he had left without a word, leaving me to my own worst devices. Waking up, alone and cold, was disorienting, but the pain at finding him actually gone was nearly paralyzing to the point of making me catatonic.

Looking around, realizing what had happened, blanked out every other thought in my head. As I lurched through the house, looking frantically, I found that I didn't care that the kitchen was on the verge of caving in. I wasn't concerned that I might not have shelter for the coming battle. When the coldness of abandonment settled in my stomach as I searched the last place he could be, the bedroom, I felt so alone and so blindsided I could barely muster the energy to dig out clothes, purely out of habit to cover my legs than anything else. Then I lay there, on my bed, listening to the air filling and emptying in my lungs and choking back the tears that threatened to dissolve me into a fit that I knew would be so great and terrible it might leave me completely unhinged. I despised myself for letting down my guard, for depending on him despite my better judgement. I knew it would be like this and yet I still let myself think good things could happen and dreams could come true and now I was alone again. Alone and worse off than before. At least the numbness didn't hurt like this.

The voice, of course, was there to torture me like always. Its non-stop monologue filled my ears, reminding me that although I am by myself again I will never find peace.

 _This is what traitors deserve._

 _They will destroy us if we don't destroy them first._

 _Do it, Caroline._

It was only when the aching in my ribs broke through the haze that I turned on my side and saw his flashlight on the floor. Then a desperate notion struck me and like a crazed person I snatched it and leaped upwards, nearly falling on my face in my rush to get back down to the basement. It was a long shot, but it was my only chance to lift myself out of the tsunami of depression that wanted to suffocate me.

I can't describe the feeling the grasped ahold on me when the beam illuminated his uniform and equipment still on the cellar floor. Relief? Confusion? Blind hope? It all mixed together in a nauseating wave that made my knees weak until I had to sit back against the ladder.

But the question remained: where was he? _Arrested_. That was the only way he would leave his rifle behind. Had I really slept through it? I blinked and found myself at the front gate, lifting the latch. But if that was what happened then the situation was hopeless. I didn't have to guess what they would do him; the images were seared into my memory first hand and I was powerless to help him.

 _You already know what is going to happen if you disappoint me._

The world tilted and I finally did vomit, collapsing on the walkway to try to purge the sick feeling filling my veins. But nothing could stop the carousel of pictures flashing behind my eyelids and before I knew it I was bursting back into the house, grabbing the broom and doing to only thing I could think of: cleaning. Stupid, useless cleaning of a bombed-out shack to keep my hands busy until I could come up with some sort of plan. It was better than tearing my hair out.

Then he came back. And all of my fear, anxiety, pain, and nightmarish memory were funneled into the pure wrath that I directed at him. Perhaps unjustly so; he was clearly caught off guard. But then he struck back with a ruthlessness that I should have expected. That didn't stop my hand from connecting with the side of his face.

In the space between my strike and my brain catching up with what I was doing the the six words I have spent the last few years running away from spun in the air around me.

 _You always were my best student._

And then I felt the sting in my palm and saw his cheek redden and I realized what I had done.

I was no better than them. I never have been. It was all a fantasy that I, a desperate, lonely girl, created to make I seem like I was somehow different.

The futility of it all crashed into me and I had to get away from him before he could respond. If he didn't know before that I'm not worth it he did now and I couldn't bear to look at him again or hear the awful words he was bound to say.

I didn't expect him to stop me. I certainly didn't expect him to refuse my apology. _I deserved it_ , he said, like the violence I inflicted on him was some sort of retribution that he had coming. And it broke my heart. He looked so contrite and regretful when I was the one in the wrong that my doubts resurfaced again, telling me that I don't deserve him and there was no way my feelings were reciprocated. After all, I told myself, why would he just leave if he was concerned about my wellbeing?

But he was. Oh, he was. Kissing me was the last thing I thought he would do and I nearly jumped out of my skin when he was suddenly there – his warm body surrounding me as his mouth connected with mine in a way I had only dreamed Henrich's would do. Then he shifted as though he was going to pull away, but I was too far gone and grabbed his shirt to keep him with me. A groan sounded somewhere deep in his throat and he pulled me even further into him, his hands bunching my hair and splaying across my lower back to nearly lift me off the ground in a gesture that sent bolts of electricity down my spine.

It was a kiss that washed over me like a cold breeze on a hot day, startling me from what I hadn't realized was a dulled awareness of everything around me. Every nerve ending came alive and when I opened my eyes again the colors that greeted me were brighter than I ever noticed before. Even now, as I anxiously search, the air crackles around me, making me hyper aware of his every move. My heart flutters in my chest and a girlish desire to be coy and flirtatious toys with my brain even though I don't know the first thing about being coquettish.

It took everything I had to finally push him away, to listen to my last shred of reasoning and get some sort of assurance that this was real and he wasn't going to turn against me again. And then I watched Joe, the uncompromising stone wall that is Joseph Liebgott, crack open and pour out a story that was both deeply personal and genuinely tragic. The pain that was plain on his face was so difficult to watch that I found myself looking outside, sparing him the audience as he struggled to keep himself under control as he tried to tell me why he was the way he was.

I think that was the point where I admitted to myself that what was going on was deeper than a passing infatuation. Against everything – the catastrophe of his first night here, his panic nearly forcing him to shoot me in the yard, my decision that he was unlikable – when he bashfully shoved his hands in his pockets and told me that he was trying to change because of me I realized that I was in head over heels.

I'm not naïve enough to mention this to him. The massive unknown that was the future meant that any endearment I want to give him will have to wait until we see if we come out together on the other side.

"I think I found it," he says, delicately plucking something from the pile. I drop the sewing basket I was digging through and make my way over to him. It sits in his palm, the gems glittering in the light.

"Thank you," I breathe, taking it from him to inspect it. Even though my eyes are focused on it in my hand I feel the heat gather under my skin as he watches me, close enough to touch me if he desired. I swallow. "It doesn't seem to have been damaged."

"What is it?"

"A broach that belonged to my mother."

He turns away from me to sift some more through the things on the floor. "She's dead then?"

His tone is deliberately casual. If it were anyone else I would be offended by the offhandedness of it. But I know he is just trying to avoid making it feel like he's interrogating me again.

"Yes, she and my father both are." I watch him, waiting for the follow up questions I know he wants to ask, but he only gives a short nod of understanding.

"Should we get all this cleaned up then? It should be the last of it."

I relax, thankful that he isn't pressing it. "Yes. I'll start putting the salvageable things back on the shelves."

We work in silence, him gathering the trash while I recover what managed to survive. The air in the cellar is tight, but in a way that makes warmth pool in stomach and I can't help but sneak looks at him or relish the moments we brush against one another in the small space.

More than a few times I catch him looking back, a small, knowing smile on his face.

We toss the broken things into the wash tub that is serving as a makeshift trash can and lug it upstairs to dump in the trash pit. The sun has just set as we skirt around the remains of the barn to reach the gravel depression, blackened by numerous fires. I direct us to dump it to cover the bloody bandages I never got around to burning. Pulling it back, I wipe the splint over my sweaty forehead, letting the cooling air dissolve the heat from both the work and the flush that seems to have become permanent in the hours since this morning.

From my side he steps nearer, fingers brushing over mine as takes my handle of the tub from me and causing sparks to shoot up my arm. My eyes find his as he closes the distance between us.

"You have some dirt on your face," he says softly, his dark gaze making my mouth dry even in the fading light. With aching slowness his hand rises, one long finger sliding over the skin of my cheek. My breath hitches and a shiver works up my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.

My arm lifts on its own accord as his hand falls away. His chest is solid under my palm and the soft cotton of his shirt. He leans towards me, his thick hair falling over his forehead, and I find my chin moving upwards –

A rumble, low and deep, rattles the ground underneath us. I freeze, tensing as the terror of last night tears into my muddled mind, and Joe's head jerks to the south.

"What is it?" I say, my voice weaker than I mean it to be. Turning, I follow his stare to look towards the horizon. A distance glow creates a second sunset, turning the dark blue sky a faint gold. Another growl, quieter, vibrates under our feet.

He remains silent, his face drawing down into a hard frown. It tells me what I need to know. The war is coming for us.

"We should go inside," he says, moving away from me. I look down, disappointed that the moment has been lost and his voice is blank again, and move to trail him back to the house. Night closes in around us and after a moment the shadow of his form halts in front of me and I feel the rough skin of his hand close over my own, giving it a gentle squeeze. I relax at the gesture and let him lead me through the jagged boards from the barn and back to the cellar.

* * *

"Are you going to change?" I ask, watching him as he sits on the cot, clearly lost in thought. He shakes his head, blinking and looking to me.

"I'll give it a little more time. They are still quite a distance away. Chances are more Germans are going to be coming through as the retreat happens. I don't want to risk it."

I nod, chewing my lip as I stand before him. He sighs and runs a hand over his face. "I need to talk to you about what is going to happen."

He motions for me to sit next to him and with stiff legs I do. I watch his jaw work and he clenches his hands together until the knuckles are white. He focuses on them instead of me. "You need to stay down here. Once the shit hits the fan this is going to be the safest place for you."

"I know," I tell him. We don't speak of the fact that this safety is relative. If they up blow the house the cellar isn't going to save me. If the place finally collapses on itself this will be nothing more than my tomb.

"They might not give civilians a chance when clearing the house. It's 50/50 on whether they are going to order you to come out or if they are just going to toss a grenade down here. I will try to stay nearby once I'm out there but I don't know what is going to happen. So when I leave you need to barricade yourself over there," he points to the corner farthest from the ladder, "using the blankets, cot, washbasin… anything you can find. You might have a chance of deflecting a grenade blast if you do. Regardless, when you come out make sure your hands are in the air and you don't make any sudden movements."

I nod, my own hands wringing.

"Do you know any English?"

"No, I don't."

He rises, going for his equipment belt. Tearing off a corner of one of the maps he came back with this morning, he quickly scribbles something down. Coming back over, he hands it to me but I can't begin to guess what it means.

"It says that you helped me and that you are an Allied sympathizer. Hopefully it will get you better treatment if I'm not here."

I stare at the paper. Proof of how far I've come. My betrayal, right there in pencil.

He sits again. "Give them this too, so they know it's real." He pulls out his dog tags, removing one of the stamped metal rectangles and presses it into my palm. I watch as his hand curls around mine, closing my fingers around the tag. "Do you understand, Caroline?"

I nod. mu chin giving an involuntary tremble. I feel his fingertips dance along my cheekbone as he brushes the hair out of my face. Unlike the heated touches before this is gentler, skimming the bruise Henrich gave me as his eyes, mournful and somber, catch mine.

"More than likely they will just leave you alone since you are a civilian and you won't need to do a thing. If that happens wait for me to come and get you."

"What if you can't?"

"I will."

I want to believe the conviction in his voice but I know that would be reckless. "What if you're dead?"

"I'm not going to spin you a fairytale. I don't know what is going to happen when I go out there. But trust me than I am going to do everything I can to see that you are safe and that we both are alive and together when this is over. But if the worst happens, you can use this," he squeezes my hand, "to find out what happened. And know that I am sorry."

"Can't you stay here with me?" The words break as they leave my lips. "Why do you have to leave?"

His mouth thins. "I have to do my part, Caroline. I'm not going to hide and wait to be rescued. Because of you my side is almost healed and I am able to fight. It wouldn't be right to try to avoid it."

"But it's right to leave me behind?" I'm getting shrill, letting the flood of worry get to me. "I already thought I lost you once – "

His hand goes to cup my face. "I've made it this far. There's no reason to assume I won't make it to the end."

"You're asking me to trust pure luck? If you ask me your luck has been anything but. Hit by two grenades, stuck behind enemy lines – "

"Caroline," he interrupts, his voice gentle but firm. "It hasn't been just dumb luck. I'm in one of the best companies in the army, fighting with some of the best soldiers. I've been in this since Normandy. I know what I'm doing, okay?" His thumb strokes my jaw. "I have a chance here. Don't write my eulogy just yet."

I look down at the tag and slip of paper in my hands and suddenly my vision blurs.

"Hey, don't cry." His lips press against my temple. "We still have some time and I think we should enjoy it. You hungry?"

I should be since my last meal was yesterday, but instead my stomach swirls with unease and I'm not sure if I can keep anything down. I nod anyway. Maybe food would be distracting.

When we cleaned upstairs he tossed the bags from the plane down here and they sit piled near the ladder. He digs through one and produces two cans similar to what was in his gear bag.

"Look on the bright side – at least we have some choices for dinner tonight. No more fucking lima beans. And…" he smiles at me, "you need to sew up my wound tonight. That means you get to see me shirtless. Try to contain yourself, okay? I don't want to have to fight you off."

Despite myself I smile at his posturing and wipe my eyes. "Somehow I managed a few days ago."

He hands me one of the tins. "Just because you thought I hated you. If you knew the truth I bet you would have been all over me."

I look up from peeling off the lid. "The truth?"

He quiets a little as he settles next to me and stares at his own tin. "Yeah… I didn't think you were so bad."

I can't help sounding incredulous. "You mean, after you almost shot me in the yard?"

For a moment I worry that I've gone too far, that dredging up the more unpleasant aspects of his time here will cause him to withdraw back into himself.

Instead he sends me a playful smile. "Yeah, why do think I didn't? I thought you were a mighty fine-looking dame."

I chuckle at his goofy expression. "That's morbid."

"Eh, what'd you expect?" he shrugs.

The meal is some sort of chicken. While not great, it is better than whatever lima beans were. Still, I pick at it, thinking.

"Why didn't you?"

He looks up, chewing. "Why didn't I what?"

"Why didn't you kill me? Out on the road or in the yard?"

He thinks for a moment, the joking expression replaced by a musing one. "I thought about it, both times." He replies seriously. "Out on the road it was because I didn't want anyone else to find me and in the yard I thought you were going to turn me in and I needed to run." Sighing, he pokes at the meal. "I didn't in the road, to be honest, because I saw you were a civilian and I realized that I wasn't going to survive unless I found some shelter. You had some unfortunate timing, I'm afraid."

I don't disagree. While things have changed, I would rather we met under different circumstances.

"In the yard… I don't know. I woke up, disoriented, and you were gone. I thought you had escaped and probably told people I was here. I knew I had to get away before I was arrested and I didn't want you to give them any information about me. I panicked and I… did some terrible things. I'm sorry about that."

"You were scared. I understand that." Fear makes us all do things we wouldn't otherwise.

"Luckily I came to my senses and saw you, a skinny, pale, shivering thing at the end of my gun. Then I realized you were hanging the same bandages that were used on me and it all clicked into place. You wouldn't hurt me."

His words affect me more that he realizes. That's how he saw me? Even a man filled with bloodlust still only saw a nervous, harmless girl? He has no idea. None. Because I haven't told him. Because I'm keeping him in the dark.

 _Pull the trigger._

Suddenly the notion that I won't be able to keep down my dinner becomes reality and I swallow back my bile.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he says hastily. "I figured you wanted the truth."

"It's not that," I reply, dropping the meal to the floor. "I guess I'm just anxious about everything is all."

I feel him watching me but he doesn't say anything else. I need to change the topic before the guilt eats me alive.

"They tell us stories of what has happened to Germans in the towns the Americans and Soviets invaded. Are those true?"

"What stories?"

I jump off the cot, eager for the breathing room to get myself back together, and go over to the shelves to find the newspaper.

"Here's one. It says all of the men were lined up and shot and the soldiers did…indecent things to the women. Is that what happens? Is there any fact to it?"

He sets his meal aside to read the article I'm pointing at, brow furrowing. After a moment he gives mocking snort at the paper. "This is nothing but propaganda, Caroline. They're trying to make the civilians afraid of the invasion."

"None of those things happened?"

He looks up at me. "I can't speak for what the Soviets are doing, but I haven't seen this happen with any of the American units."

"So I have nothing to worry about?"

He lifts his eyebrows. "Do you think I would leave you alone here if you did?"

I bite at my fingernail. "I guess not."

His eyes linger on me for another moment but I can't tell what he is thinking. "Enough of that. Guess what I found in my meal."

"What?"

He reaches over and pulls out a nondescript bar wrapped in paper. "How long has it been since you've had chocolate?"

I drop my hand from my mouth in surprise. "You have chocolate?"

"The finest Hershey can make."

I sit back down beside him, eyeing the bar. "It's been… I don't know how long, actually."

"Then it's yours, darlin'."

He holds it out to me and I gingerly take it from him. "My father used to bring me chocolate back from Belgium. I guess I haven't had any since his death even though it wasn't rationed then." I peel back the wrapper and take a bite. The sweetness explodes in my mouth and I look up to find Joe smiling at me. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

We don't speak again while I relish in the candy, thinking. I don't miss that twice so far tonight I've been on the verge of a panic attack and he's successfully distracted me both times. He must know something is on my mind but has decided not to say anything and instead has devoted himself to stopping me from sinking into depression. A warm feeling spreads through my chest and I glance at him as he continues to eat his meal. For someone who admits he doesn't know how to handle other people he seems to have no trouble with me. He even called me darling. I like being called darling, I think.

As I crumple the wrapper his voice travels over to me again. "Do you think we could get my side squared away tonight?"

I nod, holding back my sigh. Even if it has to be done, fixing him up makes him just one step closer to leaving.

"The bags have kits in them. There should be the stuff you need there, already sterile."

I go over and dig through the bags until I come across a tin with a red cross painted on the side. When I turn back around he has just finished pulling his shirt off and I gulp. I noticed him before, but now with the acknowledgement of what is happening between us I find myself openly admiring his form in the glow of the lamp. Even thinned from his injury I feel my heart stutter as I take him in.

"Remember, Caroline. Contain yourself." His cheek is back and he smirks at me. I shake my head in admonishment and make my way to him, hoping the lamp will hide my blush.

"You are certainly full of yourself."

"Just when I'm around a pretty lady."

"Whatever, Don Juan. Can you take off the bandages yourself?" He nods and I open the kit, immediately finding a bottle of disinfectant. He pauses in unwrapping himself to open it for me and we repeat our process of pouring it on my hand before I pull out the wads of gauze from inside him. I see him wince but otherwise he stays still.

Dumping the gauze in the bucket, I look up at him. "I'm afraid the whiskey bottle was shattered and I never found the morphine I got at the aid station."

"There should be…" he leans over me and plucks a syrette from the kit. "Here it is. Do you want me to give it to myself? "

"Sure." I don't how to do it, honestly. Without hesitating he uncaps the needle and jams it into the side of his thigh. After a moment he lets out a breath and his shoulders sink.

"Okay, we are good to go."

I open the suture kit and hook the needle in the clamp. I read about this in the book, but the pages were ripped out by Henrich's oafs and now I'm going from memory.

The wound is pink and healthy looking. Then I realize my splint isn't going to work.

"Can you hold it shut? I only have one hand to work with."

Wordlessly he does so and I stab the needle through. "Feel anything?"

"Nothing too bad," he replies, staring at the wall across from us.

My stitches aren't even, but about sixteen later the gash is closed and I'm tying it off. "Can you cut the thread?"

He reaches around me to grab the scissors and snips it off. Setting the needle aside, I grab a bandage and start wrapping it around his middle. As I lean closer to him I feel his breath catch and when I look up his face is centimeters from me. A second later I feel a warm hand cover mine as I hold the gauze to him.

"Thank you," he finally whispers, his expression intense, "for everything."

A simply _you're welcome_ doesn't seem appropriate for how he's looking at me and I stare back at him. He moves and his hand comes up to trace my face again. I close my eyes under the feathery touch.

"Where did you get this?" His hand is at my temple, tracing the scar that goes down to my cheek.

"I got in trouble," I answer without thinking and his hand stops. My eyes fly open and I find him looking at it, a look on his face that I haven't seen since the night him came here. Hateful.

I draw back, quickly standing. "I need to get this cleaned up." I avoid looking at him and go to pick up the bucket. Before I can react his hand shoots out, latching onto my wrist. I tense and the grip loosens.

"I didn't mean to scare you. I… who did that?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"Why?"

"Because someone hurt you."

"So you are going to do what? Hunt them down?"

"Maybe." His voice roughens.

I exhale. "It was a long time ago. I've gotten over it and you shouldn't get upset."

"What about the ones on your legs? You never told me what happened there."

I don't want to lie to him. "I don't want to talk about it, Joe."

"Why not?"

The tears burn behind my eyes and I swallow. "Because it's a bad memory and I don't want to dredge it up now."

He must hear something in my voice because his face softens. "Shit, I'm sorry. This morphine is doing a number on me and my brain isn't fucking working right."

"It's alright." I go to gather up the aid kit and feel a soft touch on my elbow.

"Don't close up on me now. I only want to know because I care about you."

"I know."

"Will you ever tell me?"

Exhaustion suddenly courses through me and I brace myself against the cot. "I'll tell you what. You survive this and come back to me and I'll tell you anything you want to know. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

He smiles at me and I fake one in return, because I know the answers I'm going to give him are just going to break his heart.

* * *

 _"_ _Do you like it?"_

 _"You look very smart in it."_

 _"I get to wear a tie and everything. Mother says I'll get to go to camp this summer."_

 _"It sounds like fun."_

 _His smile dims. "Do you want to join too? I can say something. They have girl units."_

 _The sun is warm for spring and shines down on him, illuminating his blonde hair like a halo. I can tell he spent a lot of time putting his uniform together to show me. The khaki is carefully ironed and the leather strap across his chest shines with fresh polish_

 _"I'm not sure if they'll let me."_

 _"Why not?"_

 _"I dunno. I'm don't think my parents would like it."_

 _"Of course they will. Who wouldn't love to have their child in the Hitlerjugend? It is a privilege only for the very best." He snaps his heels together and stands up tall._

 _I look towards my door. "I should get inside."_

 _"Can I come in? I need help with the homework."_

 _"I'll meet you before class tomorrow and give you my answers."_

 _He lets out a sigh. "You are never going to let me in, are you?"_

 _"I'm not allowed to have anyone over," I mumble._

 _"Even your only friend?"_

 _I stay silent, staring at the ground. Giving a frustrated huff, he turns and I see his shadow walk away._

 _My parents aren't home and only the sounds of the streetcar outside seeps into the stillness. That is odd. I set my schoolbooks on the table and call out for Mother. There is no reply except a soft cough from upstairs from who I think is The Girl. That's what I call her. I haven't seen her since that night and no one will tell me her name. Looking around for any adults one last time, I start to carefully climb the stairs, avoiding the spots that creak and making sure the hard soles of my shoes don't clabber on the wood._

 _I smell the sickness before I push open the door. It permeates the air, sticking to everything with an invisible stench that I know even in my young age is very bad. The shades are drawn, but I still see her form, small and white, sunken into my bed. I creep closer and she doesn't move. Her eyes are closed and her skin is stretched across her bones, waxy and yellow. She doesn't look alive. I lean closer, gathering the courage to touch her, when her eyes snap open._

 _"Momma?" she whimpers._

 _I jump back and she focuses on me but doesn't move. "Who are you?"_

 _"Caroline. This is my room. Who are you?"_

 _"Anne." She makes a movement as if she wants to rise but instead falls back against the pillow, paler and sweaty._

 _"What's wrong with you?"_

 _"Momma says I'm sick, but that I'm going to get better."_

 _"You don't look better."_

 _"I know. I don't feel better."_

 _"Why don't you go to the doctor?"_

 _"I can't."_

 _"Why not? I go to the doctor. He's nice."_

 _"I'll get arrested."_

 _I stare at her, confused. "Why? What did you do?"_

 _"Momma says it's because people don't like us."_

 _"I like you just fine."_

 _"Even though I'm Jewish?"_

 _I back up a step. I have seen the posters. We watch the films in school. Juden._

 _But she didn't seem mean. She didn't look like the cartoons they made us draw._

 _"Caroline!" My mother steps in front of me, blocking my view of Anne. "What did I tell you about coming up here?"_

 _She grabs one of my ears and starts to pull me out. Grimacing, I look back at Anne. Her gaze follows me, wide but tired. "Please come back," she whispers, low enough that my mother doesn't hear._

 _I nod and the door slams shut._


	23. Chapter 22

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 **Things start to really move in this chapter!**

* * *

 _Thwack_

The ax slid through the wood easily, cleaving the log in two. Swiping the back of his forearm across his forehead, he grabbed the pieces and tossed them onto the growing pile at the base of the gaping kitchen. The morning air nipped at him, steaming his sweaty clothes as he balanced another log on the block.

A figure manifested at the tree line across the yard from him and he automatically stopped for a moment until he recognized it as Caroline, weighed down with carrying another log towards him. She didn't speak as she came closer, her hair already coming loose from the bun she tied and falling in her face. A frown marred her features, but it looked to be from whatever was going through her mind rather than some disturbance he needed to know about. She dumped the log beside him and turned away to go back into the woods.

She had been quiet all morning, beginning after she startled him awake by shooting up and gasping for air like she had been suffocated. He jolted up too, going for his rifle before her hushed voice registered with him that everything was alright. It was just a dream, she said, but wouldn't share the details and the look on her face when he pressed was a familiar one. There were a number of things, he deducted over the past few days, that she still didn't trust him to know. It was frustrating, especially since trying to force answers just lead to a dead end. He believed that it was nothing that could be a threat to him, but whatever she was holding back clearly disturbed her and he found himself worried nonetheless.

He brought the ax down again, feeling the muscles in his shoulders and back stretching. He was glad to be doing something besides sitting on his ass. The effort made his heart pound in his ears and the blood push through his limbs in a feeling he hadn't realized he missed being stuck in the cellar. The stitches she made held together firmly and the least he could do before the battle was make sure she could keep warm.

Chopping wood was hard, but it wasn't complicated and he found his mind wandering, idly contemplating the magnitude of what had happened over the last few days.

His history with women was not something to be bragged about. His reputation in the later years of high school kept the other boys from tormenting him, but it had the unfortunate side effect of making the girls give him a wide berth as well. He tried once, his junior year, with a girl in his English class named Lucille who was brave enough to try to flirt with him. But only a few dates later he began to find her annoying and shortly thereafter her ex-boyfriend, some mouth breather on the basketball team, tried to fight him out of jealousy or some stupid shit. The goon lost and Joe had a sneaking suspicious that Lucille had goaded the whole thing into happening from the way she watched, a satisfied smirk on her face. He hadn't even cleaned the blood off his knuckles before he kicked her to the curb, figuratively speaking. After that he decided the girls in his school weren't worth the hassle and spent his senior year as celibate as a fucking monk.

Things changed, though, once he was in the Army. Women gravitated towards the uniform and the sudden attention was at once gratifying and overwhelming. Boot camp had changed him, he thought, for the better and for once he decided to throw caution to the wind. He didn't remember any woman in particular, but by the time they left for England he had more than made up for his years of isolation in New York. It was the closest he got to feeling like he had a normal life, something that he had only seen in the movies. If there was one point where he could claim to be youthful and idealistic, that time was it.

If he had to guess, more than one of the guys in his unit had a sweetheart to leave behind when they shipped out. The women he dallied with stateside never promised to write and he never asked, knowing that he was not one that knew how to do the relationship thing in _person_ , let alone long distance. A nice pair of legs hadn't changed his natural aloofness and a chance meeting at a bar certainly wouldn't show him the light. Still, nevertheless, he sometimes felt a dull twinge in his chest as the others went starry-eyed over their girlfriends, a feeling he wasn't sure he would ever know. As training intensified he was eventually able to shove those thoughts from his mind, figuring he would deal with his bachelorhood after he knew if he was going to come back alive. Worrying about it seemed pointless until then.

That futility became all the more apparent as time passed. Most of the men around him boarded the ships to take them across the Atlantic with heartfelt ideas about who was waiting for them back home. But, unavoidably, those sweethearts left behind turned lonely, which turned into Dear John letters when the next batch of soldiers arrived at the local watering holes. More than one of his friends had a bitter night of hard drinking, trying to forget a woman. Seeing their sorrow and realizing that normal men who knew how to be open and affectionate still ended up fucking destroyed, he concluded that there wasn't much hope for him at all. And then there was the fact that everyone, faithful woman or not, gave in to the temptation in Aldbourne and London eventually. All of this assaulted his faint ideas that love could be had for him, that in the end it wasn't just a cheap transaction for a few moments of physical bliss, and his outlook soured as easily as the warm British beer he was always served.

So then he found himself rebuffing the girls that approached him, their faces seductively painted and their hair curled to perfection. Whoever said men were the predatory ones had never been in a military club. They arrived in packs, scoping out the soldiers and laying their enticements with the precision of snipers sighting a target. Most men were happy to go along and he couldn't blame them. They were pretty, fun, and willing. It was all meaningless gratification, a welcome break from the monotony of military life. But whenever they turned their attentions to him he found himself declining to be swept away with the rest of his buddies. Affection, platonic or not, had been such a rare thing to him his entire life that to now just give it away to a woman he was never going to see again, who would never appreciate how much it took out of him, seemed to be just something that would leave him even more disheartened.

That's how he gained such a good friend in Skip. They would be the two left behind to man the table during the dancing and drag the drunks home at the end of the night. Skip had his Faye and he never wavered.

If it weren't for Skip, Joe probably would have given up completely, especially after they joined the fight on D-Day.

The fortitude it took to be on the front, to live day by day with the hardness inside not letting him feel anything but the empty darkness of death, shattered the polite façade he kept up for the civilians he came across. Instead of breaks from boring training, his times off now were brief, blessed reprieves from the butchery that outsiders only interrupted. The clubs that had previously seemed fun and inviting where now loud and overwhelming. The sweet, easy-going girls were now hardboiled dames after his paycheck. If he did sleep with someone, it was not a romantic interlude. No, it was a _fucking_ for the sake of giving him some sort of release from the knowledge that he wouldn't live to see thirty.

But even these were few and far between, done only when he thought something inside of him was going to break if he didn't do _something_. As such, the women who asked him to dance or asked him to buy them drinks were given a rude response. He attracted a fair few and got so good at it some of the guys refused to sit by him when they went out, in case the fallout from his icy dismissal affected their prospects too.

So it usually ended up just being him and Skip, and nine times out of ten Skip would eventually start waxing poetic about Faye. Joe didn't mind, even if he heard the stories a million times before. Faye was Skip's break from what was waiting for them on the other side of the Channel. She was his escape and he spoke about her with such a wistful glow in his voice Joe felt warm just by listening to it.

But now Skip is dead and Joe will never hear about Faye again. The intense sadness this thought brought was tempered by the awareness that, for Skip, a woman completed him. Because of Skip Joe knew that love did exist and maybe all hope wasn't lost.

Caroline appeared again, dropping another log. She looked tired and wan, worry replacing the frown on her face as the rumbling to the south grew closer with every passing hour. The blouse she was wearing today was clearly meant for someone else and swallowed her, the drooping collar showing her too-prominent collar bone. Could she be his Faye? Their intensely disastrous meeting was a far cry from the gentle courtship Skip had. But although they were both frayed from the stress this past week had thrown at them he had come to realize didn't want to be anywhere else but by her side. That had to count for something.

She approached him, her hand reflexively fiddling with her splint. "I think this should be enough to last me a week. My hand should be good by then."

He felt his face tighten at her insinuation that she was still going to be here in a week. Expecting the worst seemed to be her natural inclination, not that he could blame her. But her lack of faith still bothered him. Her pleas last night to not leave her bounced around inside his head and he felt his grip on the ax tighten as the guilt beat at him. He had to go and fight. Every bullet he had in his gun was a bullet that could be used against a Nazi and he would be damned if he waited in the cellar while Easy fought and died outside.

Looking at her, he didn't know where to go from here. Even the fucking idea that he might survive was something he himself was still getting acclimated to. His promises last night that he had a chance were a sermon of optimism that before he didn't bother with trying to believe. But for her he now did. He had to in order to prevent her from falling into pieces. It barely worked and he ended up trying to distract them both with his rusty sense of humor and, eventually, the closeness of curling up on the cot. Now, with the ominous roar rolling towards them, there was nothing he could do and neither could think about anything else.

She eventually broke the silence. "I'm going to heat some water. You can have a bath and I'll clean your uniform before you go." Her voice wavered slightly, the pain evident in her eyes as she looked south for the thousandth time this morning. As she went to brush by him he gently caught her arm.

"I'm going to come back," he said lowly, peering down into her upturned face.

She opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it. Instead she rose up onto her toes and her mouth brushed against his. Then she was gone, disappearing into the house.

Watching after her, tasting her on his lips, doubt attacked him again. What the fuck was he doing, leaving her to fend for herself in the middle of a battle? There was no guarantee that if he couldn't stay nearby whoever found her wouldn't put a bullet in the middle of her forehead. That's even if they don't clear the cellar using explosives.

Shit.

Compounding the fucking problem was what happened last night. With the upstairs uninhabitable and the ground cold and hard, they found themselves together on the cot. He wasn't sure what was going to happen as her body fit itself against his in the narrow span of the bed. The feeling of her pressing up against him certainly didn't help his self-control that was already shredded by the morphine and her closeness as she bandaged him.

He grabbed another log and lifted it onto the block, taking a deep breath at the memory. Thank God it was fucking cold this morning.

Being that near to a woman without the next step including ripping off clothes was utterly outside his area of expertise. Even in the days where he did his fair share of fooling around he never imagined that someday he would meet someone who could make him want to hold back. So he lay there, trying not to be a rigid as a godddamn board in his nervousness. It nearly killed him when her hands tentatively ran over his still bare chest and he had to focus to keep his fucking mitts where they belonged: above her shoulders. He didn't know much about her history, but he figured it was safe to assume that her relationship experience began and ended with that twat Henrich. Lord knows how that damaged her on top of everything else.

He was so focused on reigning himself in that they barely spoke before her eyes finally drifted closed and she leaned into him, her cheek resting over his heart. By that time his shoulder was beginning to ache from the angle he contorted himself into to give her as much space as he could. He debated about it for what seemed like fucking hours before he let himself gently grasp the curve of her hip to pull her towards him while simultaneously moving onto his back. His heart hammered like a teenager's as she shifted, her head going into the crook of his shoulder and one of her legs nestling in between his. It was a position that was significantly more comfortable for him, but damn him if it wasn't so intimate that he couldn't relax enough to go to sleep. He anticipated that she would wake up and smack him again for moving her into a situation like this, but she didn't and the sweet torture meant that dark circles hung under his eyes now.

It was no shocker that something like fucking _cuddling_ wasn't his forte. His trysts usually involved a quick exit out the door. Stateside he didn't stay because he didn't want to get attached. In Europe it was because he and the girl had both gotten what they wanted and there was nothing left to say. But even with all the things he had done until now nothing left him feeling more vulnerable than laying like that with a fully clothed woman. A fucking _sleeping_ fully clothed woman to boot.

He puffed out his cheeks before swinging the ax again.

And now he was leaving her with nothing but a wing and prayer. Godammit. Maybe he could take up a defensive position –

"Who are you?" a gravelly voice asked from behind him.

He jolted and spun around. An short, white-haired woman stared at him from the corner of the house. He stared back, the paralyzation of panic freezing his voice in his throat. Son of a _fucking_ bitch. He was so goddamn lost in thought he didn't hear a fucking thing. Distraction was up there with dehydration as the solder's worst enemy and now he was fucking blown. _Fucking hell, fuck, fuck_ -

She stepped closer and every muscle in his body tensed with alarm. Dear God. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He didn't trust himself to try to talk and the look on her face became suspicious as she stopped again to peer at him. His stomach dropped as the adrenaline shot through his nerves. He figured he maybe had another thirty seconds before she realized something was wrong and went screaming to alert someone. And then he and Caroline were as good as dead.

Oh Jesus, _Caroline_. He was going to get her killed. The wood of the ax handle bit into his hands and those fucking words he heard months ago whispered in the back of his mind, reminding him of the only way to survive.

 _Without remorse. Without compassion._

He knew what he had to do. He had no choice when it came down to it. _Kill or be killed_. All she needed to do was keep coming closer and he would bury the blade right in her fucking skull. Son of a _bitch_. So much for all the worry about Caroline revealing his existence. His own dumb ass did it himself. _Goddammit_.

"Greta?" a high voice sounded from the house. Caroline stepped into his peripheral vision and he risked glancing over to her. She looked like she was going to be sick.

"Caroline," the woman greeted, her tone distracted. "I came to check on you again and heard a noise back here so I thought you were…" Her voice tapered off as she kept her furrowed stare directed at him. _Fuck this_. She knew. He could see it in her beady, suspicious eyes. Like a rubber band snapping he felt his tension suddenly drain away as the soldier in him took over, replacing it with a familiar, dark stillness.

He started walking towards her.

"This is my friend, Josef," Caroline said quickly as she darted to his side. At the same time he processed her German pronunciation of his name he felt a restraining hand come to a stop on his arm. The deadness inside him told him to shake it off, that there was only one objective now. "He is helping me with a few things around here while he heals from an injury."

Her hold on him tightened as the old woman took a cautious step backward, clearly perturbed by whatever was showing on his face.

"Josef, this is my friend Greta. The one I told you about?" The implication in her voice was clear. _Please don't hurt her._ Greta was a threat that needed to be eliminated, but Caroline was trying to stop him. She didn't want him to follow through. That fact broke through his conviction and his steps faltered, the necessity to protect himself and Caroline battling with the knowledge that what he did might be unforgivable to her.

Fucking hell. This was an impossible position.

Caroline squeezed his arm again.

Clenching his jaw, he stopped, hating every breath Greta continued to take. Caroline's fingers dug into his forearm and he realized they were waiting for him to give an answer. An explosion, louder than the others before it, came from the incoming front line and the air around them shivered.

He gave the old lady a curt nod. " _Frau_."

Her mouth flattened and she didn't blink. "A pleasure to meet you, Josef…" She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

He wasn't fucking giving her his real name. "Baumann," he replied, choosing his mother's maiden name. He made his accent thicker, hoping to cover any American drawl that may have seeped in over the years.

"Baumann," she repeated. "I don't recall seeing you at the aid station. What unit are you with?"

Caroline stiffened and he knew she didn't have an answer. The ax caught the sunlight. He could just swing. The woman wouldn't stand a chance and there wouldn't be any more questions.

And Caroline would never fucking speak to him again.

"272nd _Volksgrenadier_ ," he forced himself to say, using the name of the division that had nearly left him dead earlier that week. "Wasn't at the aid station very long."

Greta's expression didn't change. "It's good, then, that you are already chopping wood. You must've escaped without a serious injury?"

He narrowed his eyes at her and her probing attitude. "Piece of a grenade took off a good chunk of me, but I've gotten good care and am back on my feet."

"Yes, we do try our best over there. As a matter of fact I was here to check on Caroline's injuries. Do you need any assistance with yours?"

He needed to shut her up. "No, I don't."

She clearly wanted him to speak more but he fell silent. Put in her place, Greta blinked and moved her attention to Caroline, that prying look still on her face. Joe felt his aggravation rise as Caroline took a small step backwards under the intensity of Greta's focus. She was completely cowed and Greta knew it. That made her the easier target for weaseling out information. He felt his patience thinning as a shiver of irritation worked its way up his spine. Friend of Caroline's or not, he hated this woman and didn't trust her a fucking bit.

"I had no idea you managed to meet someone at the aid station. Was it on the night I cared for your wrist?" she asked, her voice soft but insistent as she concentrated on Caroline.

"We've known each other for a long time," he cut in, stepping in front of Caroline and blocking her from view. He pressed forward, into Greta's space. The old woman took a shuffled step back, stiffening as she was forced to look up at him due to his height. She was intimidated and that's what he wanted. She needed to be gone. "I've just had the fortune of being stationed nearby and thought I'd pay a visit while I was recuperating."

She opened her mouth to speak but he didn't let her. "Now, as you can see quite a bit of damage has been done here and we need to try to get it fixed before the fighting starts again. I'd hate to seem _impolite_ ," he paused to glare at her, "but we really must be getting back to it."

Greta looked dismayed and a long stretch of silence fell between the three of them. He didn't take his eyes off of her, making sure his message was loud and clear.

"Very well," she said finally. "I'll take my leave. Good day, Josef. Caroline." With one final look she turned and disappeared back around the corner. He followed, watching as she reached the road and turned south, walking at a rapid pace.

South. Something rang in his memory, warning him.

The barn. Henrich.

 _Go get the report on her whereabouts._

Oh, _fuck_.


	24. Chapter 23

**Hi everyone! I hope you had a great weekend. Please enjoy the chapter below. I particularly like this one!**

 **Please review! It really helps knowing what people think. Constructive criticism is welcome**!

* * *

Joe stands in the shadow of the house, his profile thrown into sharp relief against the bright sunlight illuminating the yard beyond him. He is still, watching the road, and the carefully measured rising and falling of his shoulders is the only sign of how terrible the thing that just happened is to us, in more ways than one.

My chest is tight with surrender to the fact that the end has come. He doesn't realize that he scared the one other person who may have hid him half to death. By throwing his insults and rudeness he just confirmed what she may have suspected – that something about him and his presence here isn't right. If he had just given her a chance we may have had one more ally to help us survive. The fabric of my skirt knots in my fingers as I take in his form, cloaked in shadow against the bright yellow light of spring. It feels hot, like the midst of July instead of March, but maybe the sweat that gathers on my forehead isn't due to the weather at all. Maybe the heat and the dampness is my own doing as the inconsolable notion of what just happened collapses onto me, stifling me with the bitter realization that this... us... is a mistake. After what has occurred I don't know who stands before me any longer.

He has alluded to his savagery. I have seen glimpses of it shadowing across his face during the many tense moments in his early days on my farm. But it never settled into place, never morphed him into the inhuman thing I barely recognized as I ran across the yard to stop the blood about to be spilled across the greening grass.

He was going to kill her. Lay her open like she was just another piece of wood on the chopping block. Joe advanced on who he knew was my only friend like a predator advances on prey – cold, heartless, and utterly unquestioning on his own murderous intent.

The heat gives way to a chill that settles over me like an icy mist, turning my clammy skin cold and cloaking me in the discomforting knowledge of who lurked behind those brown eyes. It had never been so naked and pure to me until now and I recognized it as easily as I knew my own darkness dwelling in my heart. But my crimes were never committed with the-the... _glee_ that was visible in the corners of his savage face as he stalked towards her. If that is what came out when he was _trying_ to be a better man, what in God's name was there before?

I may have been closer to my own grave the night I found him than I knew.

And what could I reasonably expect to happen now? How much can a person change? How deeply entwined is the monster with the man?

He looked her into the eyes. And without a second thought and for no reason he decided to kill her.

Even in my darkest days I never did that.

A rushing sound fills my ears and the ground is unsteady under my feet. Then I am stumbling backwards away from him, away from the house, away from everything. Towards the woods, where I can be swallowed by the trees and never come out. Never see this wretched, depraved plot of misery again. Joe's form grows smaller and he is so intent on the road that he doesn't notice. Is he thinking of going after her? Finishing what he started? A slight movement causes the blade of the ax to swing against his leg and I scramble faster, clambering over the rocks and debris to run away. I don't care where. Away.

 _Wait_ , a desperate voice whispers. Not _his_. No, a weaker, faint one belonging to my own conscious. _What about everything else that has happened?_

A picture of one of Joe's rare, shy smiles flashes across my vision. The softness of his lips on mine. The broken look on his face as he describes the suffering he has been through. The feeling of safety in his arms. I thought I was falling in love with him after all. Was that all an illusion?

I stumbled on a rock and he twists around at the noise. His gaze burns into my skin even though I can no longer make out his face.

The pain of the barrel of his gun shoved into my cheek, finger on the trigger. The torn sheets wrapped tightly around my wrists with bruising force, and another being stuffed into my mouth.

 _Get this off._

The barely controlled strength of his hands gripping my neck, wordlessly conveying how easily he could break me. The knife waving before my face.

 _I'm will plant this right between your ribs._

He is coming towards me, his voice reaching my ears but the words not connecting in my brain. A man fighting his own demons can't help with mine. What resides within him will only drag me down further and we will both be doomed.

A sharp pain radiates through my chest and for an insane second I think my heart is literally breaking. Gripping the worn cotton of my blouse with my fist I turn, making a run for the safety of the thick, dark trees. A few seconds later I hear footsteps following and scrambled memories from the night I found him shoot energy into my aching muscles.

 _Stop fighting or so help me God I will break your neck._

I don't fault him for all of this. I, more than anyone, should understand how little control we actually have over our lives and how we turn into the people we come to be. But the ship below Joseph and I is sinking and I have to save myself and Greta.

The prickly limbs of the evergreens smack against me as I retreat into the forest. I hold my hands out in front of me, fighting back the blinding burning building behind my eyes. I think of his face, allowing myself one last turn to drink in the features I had come to know so well before I have to tell myself that it's for the best that we part. To try to forget what he makes me feel and focus instead on the hopelessness that he can ever be more than what the war has made him.

A hand clamps down on my shoulder but I twist away, darting through the underbrush. I don't fear that he will hurt me when he catches me. No, I'm afraid of what I will say, of how I am going to destroy the infant feelings growing between us. Whether that will trigger the monster to rise again, I'm not so sure.

The trees grow thicker now, coating the ground in blue shadows. Goosebumps dance along my arms as the warm sunlight blots out, leaving only our vague forms flashing through the sparse beams of light. I don't know why I am still running. He is still behind me. He isn't going to give up. But my legs keep pumping, driven by the unreasoned desire to escape from my own emotions tangling in my heart.

An arm snakes around my waist and I twist again, but the ground is thick with wet, rotting leaves and my footing slips. The arm tightens, stopping me from sailing to the collection of rocks marking the rising hill before us, and my heart leaps into my throat as my back collides against his chest.

His body is warm in the damp chill and the part of me that won't let go of the fantasy leaps with joy as our forms nestle together like it was always meant to be.

 _I will come back for you._

But I _can't_. Who's to say if he feels anything for me at all? If he _can_ feel anything besides the horrible bloodlust I saw emerge from the darkest place in him? _He was going to kill my Greta._ What else is he capable of?

I shove myself away from him, not getting far when his hold on me doggedly hangs on. I hear his voice again calling my name, but I can't let myself listen. I can't let myself be swayed again by the pretty words that come out of his mouth. I fight harder, digging my heels into the soft earth and clawing at his forearm as it cuts into me just below my bruised ribs. He is stronger now than the last time we struggled like this and doesn't budge. His hold isn't painful. Instead he just stands, imprisoning me while waiting for my fight to peter out, safe with the knowledge that I will eventually give in like I always do.

A frustrating burn builds in my stomach. Why did he have to do this to me? Why did he have to show up at my door and make me feel so conflicted and confused? A churning mess boils inside of me – an unbearable vortex of longing, fear, doubt, anger, and hope.

That damn _hope._ Always leading me astray and making a muddled _fucking_ mess of my life.

I want to scream. The urge stacks up my throat, pushing through the mediocre restraint I have left. Why not let it out? Out here, in the middle of nowhere with Joe snarled up against me, is going to be the most freedom I'm ever going to experience.

Straining against him I let it out in a screeching wail that pierces the trees with all the unfiltered agony years in the making. I don't care if I make him deaf. I don't care if anyone else hears. He jerks slightly in surprise, reeling back momentarily, but then I feel him press against me as a second arm also wraps around my torso. I scream until I feel my vocal cords are going to snap and my body begs for air. My strength drains in his hold and before I know it we are sinking down to the ground and he has to stop me from puddling flat into the dirt.

I'm glad I can't see his face as I finally croak into a whisper and then the creeping silence takes its place. I droop against him, limply accepting that I can't get away. That I've never been able to.

"Caroline," he whispers into the unnatural stillness left in the wake of my shout and his mouth brushes the back of my neck. "I'm sorry." His voice almost breaks and he breathes into my hair.

What is he sorry for? For being here? For his ill intentions? For being who he is? Hot, bitter tears fill my eyes.

"You were going to kill her," I say brokenly.

There is a hesitant pause. "She is dangerous."

Dangerous? _Dangerous?_ What would he know about it? The only other time he met her was the _first_ time he considered offing her. "You don't know what you are talking about," I spit harshly, pushing against him. He doesn't move a centimeter. "You hate everybody, remember? You weren't even going to give her a chance."

He takes a deep breath against me. "How well do you know her?"

I struggle harder. "None of your business."

Another breath. "You're being unreasonable. Listen to me for a second."

 _I'm_ being unreasonable? I try to get back on my feet but he refuses to release me. The wet leaves stick to my knees. _He's_ the one who is the murderer.

"Caroline, _please_." One of his arms moves across my collar bone to keep me still. "I know you are attached to her, but hear me out."

Those tears finally fall, leaving cold wet trails down my cheeks. "Let me go, Joseph."

He flinches when I use his full name but his hands stay in place. "You met her when you moved here, right? Did you approach her, or did she initiate your friendship?"

I don't answer. My nose is running and I rudely sniff. He presses on.

"How often does she come around? When you call on her? Or does she like to randomly surprise you?"

I want him to stop talking. I don't want to listen to this-this... nonsense. "So? She deserves to die? You are some sort of monster."

He tenses, but otherwise acts like he isn't listening. "Does she find reasons to poke around your property when she visits? Like _hearing_ things in the back?"

"Stop it." The tears come harder.

"Has she ever told you why she is the only one who wants to be your friend here?"

"Sh-she hates the townspeople too." I should close my ears. I shouldn't listen to any more of this. But his words, heated and insistent, filter through anyway.

"Really? I would bet she isn't ostracized like you are. After all she works for the war effort. Why would she want to be friends with you? Someone who was sent here for what everyone thinks is treason?"

I recoil like I've been struck. The sour taste of bile fills my mouth and I swallow it back. "You are just trying to confuse me to justify what you did. She has always been there for me."

"Really? There for you when? When Henrich visits? Or Schueller? Tell me, Caroline, does she tend to show up when something bad has happened to you? Without you telling her?"

A vice tightens around my neck even though his hands stay down around my chest. "She didn't-she didn't come after Schueller's visit or Henrich's when you were here. You're wrong. If you could have controlled yourself I would have been able to explain everything and we could have had her help us. Now let me _go_."

He shakes me slightly, frustration apparent in the clenching of his biceps. "Do you really think that? If she hadn't been so busy at the aid station would she have left you alone for as long as she did?"

I clench my teeth together, knowing the answer and not wanting to admit it. Tears drip from my jaw and splatter on my skirt. "I'm not going to listen to you anymore. I don't even know who you are. The man back there was a demon, not you. Who's to say I should trust whatever version of Joseph is talking to me now?"

He releases a long sigh that hits the back of my neck, but doesn't respond.

"Let me go."

"Greta isn't your friend, Caroline." The vice winds tighter and the woods stare back at me as I gulp in air before I asphyxiate.

" _Let me go_." I'm pleading now, fighting against him in a desperate battle to run away again and leave these horrible thoughts behind. Greta is the only thing that kept me sane and now Joseph is ripping her away from me, tainting her with his accusations based on nothing but assumptions. He is evil, just like I saw, tempting me with his lies like the serpent and the apple.

"She's pretending to be to keep an eye on you."

I won't listen. "Let me _go_!" I screech, elbowing him hard in the gut. He chokes and the arms fall away. I catapult forward, finding leverage on the slick ground, and stumble towards the rocks. My vision blurs with the tears and I clumsily clamber over them, navigating upwards towards the clearing at the top of the hill. My own struggle to breathe and the racing pounding of my heart drown out everything else and I can't tell if he is following again. If anything he should turn back. A hit like that should convince him to cut his losses and run. That there is nothing left for him here.

A sob rips its way out of my mouth as the incline steepens and I sprint upwards on all fours. The rough limestone cuts into the skin of my hand and the fabric of the splint but it is the least of my worries. What Joseph says can't be true. It _can't_. That bastard planted a seed of doubt and I need to stamp it out before it attacks everything I trust.

I cry harder and more sobs escape into the wind. _Greta. Please don't let this be true._

She always knows when to come by after Henrich's more brutal visits. She is the only person who approached me, sent here because of my lack dedication to the cause, despite her unquestionable patriotism. She always knows when I'm home. _Oh God._

The effort of climbing should leave me hot and sweaty. But shudders shake through me as I dig my fingers into the dirt to haul myself upwards. The crest rises before me, empty of trees and rocks and outlined by the perfect blue sky. I burst towards it, leaving the shadows of the forest and wishing the overpowering sunlight could cleanse me of the sinking weight of the doubt fermenting in my mind.

Just before I reach the level ground Joseph snags me again. I reel, throwing my weight onto a wobbly rock I had been jumping over. With an earsplitting rip it pulls away from the rough grass and tumbles down the hill, gaining speed as it hits the sharp slope. Suddenly losing my foothold I sling downward as well, slipping from his grasp and flailing wildly to stop myself from cartwheeling backwards and breaking my head open on the rocks. My heart leaps into my throat as my hand only finds air and the rocks careen closer, making me wince as I brace for the impact.

At the last second something grabs the back of my blouse, jerking me back upward. Joe grunts close to my ear and I collide with a patch of dirt, knocking the wind out of me.

I gasp, forcing air back into my lungs, and Joe collapses next me, chest heaving. "Goddammit, Caroline," he growls at me between breaths. "If you are going to run off like a madwoman at least be a little fucking bit careful."

I roughly wipe my eyes with my dirty, scraped hands. He is still here instead of going back to the house like he should have.

"Go away," I scowl at him as I rise to my knees, looking for my next escape. "I'm not going to let you insult Greta anymore."

Disbelief crosses his face, but as the uncompromising tone of my voice sinks in his expression roughens.

"What the hell is going on here? This can't be just about your friend."

His face blurs and I press my lips together, shaking my head. I can't trust him to not turn against me too. Lifting myself up I go to stand, only the feel his hand fasten on my wrist and pull me down.

"Talk."

"Stop," I snap, smacking his chest with the splint. Before I recognize what he's doing he grabs it too and suddenly I've got nowhere to go.

"No," he says simply. "Not until you tell me what the fuck is happening." I pull against him and my efforts are rewarded by the tightening of his grip. "You screamed bloody murder and I thought it was because you realized who Greta was, but now I'm not so sure. Then you are running away like you are scared of me. Why?"

Another sob is trying to surge out of my mouth and I violently kick at him, desperate to escape his clutches. Dodging my feet he barks something in English and his hands clamp down on my mine. A flash of pain from my bruised knuckles jars me and a cry leaks out, "You're _hurting_ me."

Suddenly I'm free, falling back to rest against a protruding stone behind us. For a moment neither of us move, staring at each other. Anger and confusion swim in his eyes, but his mouth is drawn down with guilt. Exhaling loudly, he looks away from me as he drags his hands through his hair, looking to be at his wit's end. "I don't know what the fuck to do," he mutters to himself. I scan to find my closest escape route, even though I know he would just catch me again.

Looking back up to me, he holds his hands out in a placating gesture. I edge backwards, watching him. Hurt flashes across his face.

"Look, I'-I'm not going to come any closer, okay? I'm sorry about what happened there, but I'm not going to touch you again without your permission. So stop looking at me like I'm going to attack you." His voice is shaking, unsure for the first time since I met him. He shifts unsteadily, his eyes pleading with me. "I'm not sure why you are suddenly terrified of me, but I...I never meant to hurt you. I never intend to, Caroline. Please believe me."

"You were going to kill Greta," I whisper at him again, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.

He drops his hands. "Yes, I was," he admits. "But I didn't. Because I realized you didn't want me to."

The truth of his acknowledgement should make me feel better, but I only stare at him as more tears fall down my face. He swallows, clearly wanting to come closer, but he keeps his distance like he promised.

"The look on your face. It was…" I try to think of the words to describe it and a picture of him advancing on her flashes through my memory, making me involuntarily flinch. His eyebrows gather together as he realizes what I'm saying.

"I'm not going to pretend to you that I'm a good person. I have killed people. It's not something I enjoy doing – "

"Are you sure about that?" I ask. "Because you sure didn't seem to hesitate before you decided that Greta had to die."

He stops for a moment, his gaze on me pained. "No, I don't. I don't regret what I've done. I believe that Nazis have to die for the war to be won and I won't hesitate in killing to protect myself and you… but I don't enjoy it."

Brutal honesty hangs on his face and I roughly wipe by swollen, burning eyes again. "Greta was that much of a threat?"

The muscle in his jaw ticks. "When I was hiding in the barn," he begins, "and Henrich was looking for you, he told one of his men to get a report on where you were. The man ran south on foot – the same direction Greta left in today. He came back about twenty minutes later and told Henrich what you had been doing in the village and that you were on your way back. I know the village is to the north of your house, so the only way he could have known that is if someone had told him. Someone who keeps a close eye on you. Who else could that be besides Greta? Who else lives south of you?"

 _No one_. There is no one else south of me that I know. The vision of Joe tilts and I grip onto the rock behind me, trying to stay upright. He reflexively steps closer to me, but stops just out of arm's reach.

"It could be anyone," I argue weakly. We both know that this isn't true. My knees feel weak and I grip the rock harder. Joe takes another step towards me and I shy back, making him stop.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he says softly. "I didn't decide anything about Greta until I realized that she was only going to get us arrested. There was nothing either of us could say to convince her otherwise. That was obvious even before I knew she spied on you. I wasn't going to hurt her for no reason."

He sounds so rational and assured, like it is obvious he is in the right. That he has to be. My legs shake, threatening to buckle. "How? How could you have possibly known?"

He gives a small shrug. "A bunch of little things. She didn't greet me, instead saying, 'Who are you?' like she knew I wasn't supposed to be there. She didn't tell me her name – you did. And despite being a nurse she didn't ask me anything about my wound. She wanted to look at it, but I think that was to just get me to talk. She didn't even ask where it was or how I got it. And the way she went after you for information when I wouldn't give her what she wanted."

The logic makes my knees finally give way and I sink to the ground, covering my face with my hands. I remember the look was on her face and how uncomfortable it made me. I had only seen it a handful of times before, and now in retrospect I realize it was right before a barrage of questions. I remember the relief I felt when Joe stepped in front of me, saving me her knowing gaze that made it impossible for me to lie. _Oh, Greta._

Loneliness wells up inside of me, choking me with its all-encompassing grief. My only friend is nothing but a sham. I have been alone this entire time. Every interaction I've had with her flips through my mind, the images now stained with the knowledge that I have been a fool.

"She took advantage of you. You are vulnerable out here by yourself. She knew you would crave companionship. Anyone would. It isn't your fault." His voice sounds like he's moved closer.

"And how do I know you're not the same?" I mumble at him from behind my shaking hands. "How do I know you aren't doing exactly the same thing? Manipulating me?"

"Because I wouldn't do that to you."

"And how can I trust that? I have no idea who you are."

I hear him huff. "That's the second time you've said that to me. You know me, Caroline."

I scoff. "Do I? The creature that faced down Greta wasn't one I've met before."

He moves again until he's directly in front of me. "Look at me."

My palms are wet and clammy from my tears. I shake my head.

"I haven't lied to you. I'm not going to touch you."

"You've moved closer," I argue petulantly. I hear movement like he is tugging at his hair again.

"You're right, I did," he answers, suprisingly patiently. "I-I don't like having to stay away from you. I don't like this. Please look at me."

He sounds so sincere that I want to. But so did Greta. I believed every word she said. I think I'm going to throw up.

"You should go," I choke out. "Clearly I was meant to be alone. If what you say is true then I'm going to be arrested."

"I'm not going anywhere and you aren't getting arrested. Caroline, darling, please just look at me."

Finally I give in, dragging my hands from my face and meeting his intense brown gaze. His hand twitches to reach out to me but he resists. He leans forward, not moving his eyes from mine.

"I don't like having to hurt people. But that is what I was sent here to do. What I was saying yesterday – about who I have to be during battle – it isn't just a survival mechanism. It is what allows me to do my job. It's not who I am around you, though. And it's not who I want to be when this is over."

"Y-you said you were good at it. The night you came here. That you were going to kill me too," I sniff. "How do I know that's not the real you?"

The remorse that had been lingering on his face intensifies. "I was trying to scare you that night - I was in survival mode. I didn't actually plan to follow through, at least. We both were reckless. I mean, I don't think you are going to punch me in the face again. Well, I fucking hope you aren't." He mumbles the last part to himself. Shaking his head, he focuses on me again. "The truth of the matter is that you don't have to be afraid of me. Not anymore. You have to believe me, Caroline, because I'm not leaving here without you."

With this he stands, holding his hand out to me. I stare at it blankly, his words sinking down to war with the uncertainty gripping my heart. He admitted to the cruelty that lives within him, but in the next breath justified it in a way where I no longer know whether to run or fall into his arms. The sun is fully overhead now, illuminating him like he is an angel descended from Heaven. Nothing about us has been traditional. Nothing has been predictable. But as I stare at his open hand, beckoning me to him, I realize that out of anyone I've known throughout my life he is the only one who has stood before me like this, waiting for me to find the truth and come to him. There are no threats, no improbable promises, no negotiating, not even the slick politeness Greta extrudes. There is only him, breathing hard from following me through the woods, looking down at me with a mixture of hope and vulnerability and waiting for me to take his hand so that we can face the next step. Together.

As I close my fingers over his the last of my doubt drains away. He pulls me upward and just as I make it to my feet I find myself crushed against his chest, his arms holding me so tightly I can't breathe. His voice rumbles above me in English again, but I don't ask for a translation. The relief and exhilaration surrounding the words tells me enough and I find myself hugging him back, taking refuge in the fact that for once I don't have to be alone.


	25. Chapter 24

**Happy Halloween! In the spirit of the holiday (although unintentionally) this chapter has some dark content, so be forewarned! Things hit the fan, so to speak, and we are finally picking up speed!**

 **Mngirl - Don't apologize! I appreciate every review you give! Your questions are answered below :)**

 **Guest - Thanks! I go back and forth, but I think Joe's chapters are my favorite to write. Maybe it's all of the cursing? LOL**

 **Luckylily - Glad you like Joe! Thanks for the reviews. We'll see if the rest of Easy comes into the picture ;)**

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He led them back to the house, navigating down through the rocks and then the dark, cool forest. The narrow path was fraught with fallen trees and muddy hallows that forced them to walk single-file and reminded him to be grateful that neither of them had broken their necks in that harried, confusing chase. She fell in behind him, silent save for her soft footfalls, and he found himself looking back every few steps. It was ostensibly to make sure she was getting over some of the more treacherous hazards but he knew that it was really to reassure himself that she was still there.

His hand was already coming up empty before he thought to reach in his pocket for his non-existent cigarettes and he rubbed his palm uselessly against his pant leg as they ducked through another thicket of tangled branches. He had been doing pretty well with the nicotine withdrawal but this morning was pushing him to the fucking limit and he craved to feel a Lucky between his fingertips. The climb up what felt like a fucking mountain on top of the struggle to hold himself back from taking out the old woman had left him spent. The effort with Greta was almost as physical as mental and now his body dragged as though he had wrestled an actual raging beast instead of his own mind.

Then again, he dispiritingly thought, maybe it wasn't all that different. He certainly knew what prowled inside him. And now Caroline did too.

He should have been more forthcoming yesterday. Whatever he could have said would at least have dulled the shock he put her through today. Then he wouldn't have almost lost her to either to the woods or her fear of him. He didn't even want to contemplate what happened at the top of that hill. Acknowledgment of the dread and wariness on her face, of how she avoided him, or of how close he came to losing fucking everything would just drive him over the edge. Just the little snippets that slipped through his focus– like his imploring requests for her to look at him and how terrified he was when she wouldn't – made him forcibly stop his train of thought, afraid that if he let it continue he might decide to never let Caroline out of his sight again.

Still, when they encountered the husk of a dead tree across their path and he grabbed her hand to help her over, he couldn't tell himself to let go afterward and the physical connection grounded him in the reality that she had come back to him.

Fucking him, of all people. If it wasn't happening right in front of him he wouldn't believe he could ever find himself in this situation. She had seen the worst of him, the horribleness that turned everyone else away. She blinked like any reasonable person would, buts still gave him a chance. Now her hand was holding his back.

That was more than anyone else ever did.

He slowed as they reached the tree line on her property and crouched down before they uncovered themselves by crossing the open field. She stayed beside him, following his lead to silently zero in on the house, her grip on his hand instinctively tightening with apprehension. A cold breeze pushed past them, shaking the evergreens and making the shadows dance across the ground.

The house rose in the distance, looking all but abandoned with its missing wall and eerie stillness. No one appeared around it, but he did the quick calculations in his head. It would take Greta about ten minutes to reach home. Another five to make the phone call. Twenty for whoever was coming to assemble their gear and transportation. Then ten more to get back here, assuming they were coming from the village. That was about forty five minutes. They had spent maybe thirty in the woods, but he didn't have his watch on him.

They needed to get their stuff and get the fuck out of here.

Caroline was already looking to him, her blue eyes finally clear of the tears and horror he saw earlier. He took that to heart, pulling her closer to him to speak lowly in her ear.

"We don't have any time before they get here. I need to get my gear in the cellar and you need to pack a bag-"

"I'm going with you?" she whispered back, blinking as though the thought hadn't occurred to her before now.

"Yes," he answered, squeezing her hand. "I told you that you aren't getting arrested." Greta changed everything and Caroline was definitely was not staying here, even if he didn't have clue about what they would do if they made back to his side of the front. Her face told him that she wasn't sure either, but her relief was tangible and she nodded quickly. There wasn't time to discuss anything else. With the urgency pressing into him he spoke faster. "Keep it light. I'm not sure how far we will have to go." He never got a chance to look at those damn maps, not that it mattered now. They were made before the battle started again so they probably weren't accurate anymore. The noise coming from just past the horizon served as a beacon anyway. He just hoped he wouldn't lead them right into the fucking middle of it. "We need to be out of there in less than five minutes."

She nodded again and went to stand. They were going to have to separate to get this done and before he let go his lips pressed into the back of her hand. Her head jerked over to him from looking at the field in front of them, her surprise melting into a small smile towards him before they parted.

Then they burst out of the trees, sprinting towards the building that had been both their refuge and prison. With his long legs he reached the kitchen first. Jumping through the opening, he paused briefly to grab her arm and yank her up over the jagged, crumbled remnants of the wall that lined the foundation. It was faster than having her slow to climb over it herself. Then he was sliding down the cellar ladder and ripping off his civilian clothes in the dim light thrown through the opening. The floorboards above creaked with her hurried footsteps as he grabbed his uniform to pull it on. His shit was a mess, dumped in a pile that took him precious seconds to sort through to stuff his belongings back into his uniform pockets. Throwing on his gear belt, he ripped open one of the black bags and shoved extra rations and first aid kits in whatever space he had left on him. His heart beat steadily in his ears, warning him about every second ticking by.

Taking one last sweep around he spied the maps crumpled under the bags he had tossed aside. Pulling them free, he went over to the stove to shove them inside. Even if they were outdated he couldn't risk them falling into the wrong hands. Digging for his matches, he heard Caroline coming down the ladder behind him.

"I just need to get my things from here and I'll be ready," she said softly, going over to the shelves to grab that broach as well as the watch and comb. As he struck the match she slipped them into the knapsack she was holding, the worn leather looking like it had seen better days.

The paper flamed, illuminating the cellar. She slid the strap of bag across her chest and looked at him, nervousness making her chew on her fingernails. He slapped his helmet on his head.

"Do you have a coat?" he asked, eyeing at the baggy sweater she had pulled on. It wasn't going to keep her warm if they were still traveling after sunset. She shook her head.

"I can't find it. I imagine it was destroyed at some point – I'd left it in the kitchen."

Well, shit. She was going to freeze, but there was nothing they could do about it right now. He would cross that bridge when they came to it. "We should get go-"

A faint sound came from above and he froze. A rumbling, not deep enough to be from the fighting in the distance, trembled through the house. An engine. Caroline stiffened and he heard her breath hitch.

They stood, ears perked, hoping that it would pass by. When the engine downshifted and the squeak of brakes sounded he swore loudly before running for the ladder, pushing her ahead of him. "We have to make a run for it," he said fiercely, his mind desperately flipping through their options. "When you get to the top make a break for the trees –"

"We'll be nothing but target practice for them," she protested, resisting his maneuverings to force her upward.

"We don't have much of a choice," he retorted, listening as the car doors slammed outside. She twisted around to look at him, shaking her head.

"It would be suicide. Let me try talking to them."

Talk to them? Had she lost her goddamn mind? "Fuck no -"

"Joe," she said surprisingly firmly as she placed her shaking hands on his shoulders. "We don't have a choice. If I can't convince them to leave at least down here you will have a chance. They can only come down the ladder one at a time."

"Until they decide to just blow this place up –"

"They won't, not if it's Schueller up there. I know him. He would give anything to have an American POW to brag about. They aren't going to kill you if they think they can capture you."

He swore again when he saw the determination in her eyes and realized that there was no arguing with her. She was really going to go up there, by herself, and convince a bunch of Nazis to not look for him? There was no way in hell it was going to work.

"Probably not," she replied when he voiced this thought. "But it's our only chance and we don't have any more time. We are dead any other way."

She began pulling herself up the ladder and he had to fight with every fiber of his being not to tug her back down. Tactically, he knew this might be the only way - being who she was, they weren't going to shoot her right out of the gate and she might have a chance to reason with them. And if they came down here for him… well, he had the shadows and the bottleneck created by the opening to use to his advantage. Ah, _fuck_ , this was a shitty situation.

Chances were they were both going to be shot to death. This might very well be their last moments together, goddammit.

His hands flew out, catching her around her waist and lifting her off the ladder. She gave a startled noise, her eyes wide as he turned her around. Pulling her to him, he ducked down until their lips met, needing to have this one last bit of her. As the noises intensified outside he focused on her: her smell, her touch, her taste, everything he had come to know this past week. It was a kiss that was different than the others before it – hard, passionate, and filled with all the things he was afraid they would never get to do or say. His hands ran up her sides, over her shoulders, and brushed past her neck to tangle in her hair. She leaned into him, kissing him back with equal ferocity until he thought his eyes would cross, and her fingers glided down the rough stubble of his jaw to curl around the lapels of his uniform jacket.

But too soon, always too soon, she pulled away, her face flushed and her breathing heavy. "I have to… I want…" Words seemed to fail her and he leaned his forehead against hers, knowing what she was trying to say.

"Go," he whispered, the word almost becoming stuck in his throat in his inherent abhorrence of what she was having to do. What he was forcing her to do by his very presence.

Nodding once, she ascended the ladder again. Pausing at the top, she looked down at him, her eyes bright in the soft light and the muscles of her throat tightening with emotion.

"I love you," she breathed. And then, as though a bolt of electricity shot through her, she leapt out of the hole and pushed the door shut, not giving him a chance to respond.

He stood there in the darkness, frozen and looking stupidly at the spot she had been occupying.

 _What?_

 _She loved him?_

 _…_

 _Holy fucking hell._

…

Him? _Really_?

"Caroline." An oily voice came through the floorboards and he jerked back into himself. Shit, it was that Schueller asshole. Snatching his rifle, he moved opposite the ladder, letting the blackness wrap around him as he knelt in the corner. His hands squeezed around the wood, trying to give him some sort of silent outlet for his anxiety at Caroline being so exposed up there.

" _Herr_ Schueller," she responded. "I have a feeling about why you are here."

He wrinkled his brow, straining to hear her soft voice over the rapid pounding of his heart.

"Oh really? Why would that be?" Footsteps sounded through the main floor as whoever was with him checked the kitchen and bedroom. Two other men, it sounded like.

"Greta got suspicious of my friend, Josef."

There was a pause and he imagined Schueller's face twisted with his confusion at her confession. He didn't know where she was going with this, but hoped whatever it was she could pull it off. Caroline was still a terrible liar.

"Yes," the word was spit out, colored with dismay that he had lost the element of surprise. "What do you have to say about it? Where is he?"

"I don't know. He disappeared after Greta left."

Another agonizing pause. Joe felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

"Why would he do that?" Schueller asked slowly, suspiciously.

"He just said that he needed to get back to his unit. And then he was gone."

The floor creaked as Schueller shifted his weight.

"Just… gone?"

"That's what I said." The same meager defiance he heard the night he came here was back in her voice. He swallowed and prayed Schueller fell for it.

"Why wouldn't he stick around to talk to us?"

"He didn't say," she answered. "He showed up at my doorstep a few days ago, saying the aid station discharged him to recuperate but that he wanted to stay close to the front so he could rejoin his unit when he could. You might check with them." Her voice was dismissive, feigning nonchalance.

"Ah yes, the 272nd _Volksgrenadier_. I have a request pending to see if a Josef Baumann is assigned there."

"Good. You can talk to him when you find him."

There were lazy footsteps as Schueller began strolling through the room, heading towards the kitchen. "How do you know him?"

"We grew up in the same neighborhood."

The footsteps stopped. "In Berlin? You've managed to keep in touch with him after all these years?"

"Yes, we've exchanged a letter every now and then."

"Really? It's quite lucky he found you here." Something clunked in the kitchen as if he kicked it.

Caroline hesitated, seemingly unnerved by his casual tone. "What do you mean?"

The footsteps started back towards her. "What do I mean? I mean that it is lucky he was able to visit you here when you haven't written him since your arrival and no one outside of this valley breathes a word about your location. Do you forget that I know everything? Including every piece of mail you send and every word you write?"

"I-I-"

"Try again, Caroline."

Joe breathed hard through his nose, forcing himself to stay still.

"He heard it at the aid station," she said quickly. "I had to visit, after you broke my hand. They were talking about me and he got the idea to find me. I wrote him before I came here, not after. I know I'm not allowed to tell anyone what happened."

The footsteps continued until he was standing right next to her. "How is your hand, by the way?"

Joe knew where this going even before her cry of pain ripped through him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the urge to burst up there and kill every one of them. At least, not yet. He needed the men to separate so he could pick them off one by one. Bum rushing the group would be reckless.

"It's just going to get worse if you keep lying, Caroline," Schueller sneered. "Tell me the truth."

A tense silence followed, punctuated by another soft cry from her. His eyes watered and his fingers dug so hard into his rifle he was sure he gouged the wood.

"Fine! Fine, I'll tell you," she said tightly and he heard her fall against the floor, breathing heavily.

"Yes?" Schueller prompted, sounding unperturbed.

"I didn't know him before he approached me in the road a few nights ago," she began, still gasping for air. A jolt when through him and he straightened. Was she going to spill out the truth? What the fuck had Schueller done to her?

"He was deserting – said he had slipped out of the aid station. He needed shelter while he finished healing and made me give it to him. Threatened to kill me if I didn't cover for him."

She had a whole stable of stories to pass off, he thought gratefully. She was quicker on her feet than he gave her credit for. Although to be honest he wouldn't be surprised if she had been formulating excuses for his presence since his first night here.

There were more pounding of boots as the men circled around the house. "Where is he now?" Schueller hissed.

"He ran off, going north through the woods."

She then yelped. "Let go of me! I'm telling you the truth! There's three of you and only one of him. If you go now you can probably catch him."

So there _were_ three men. God, he hoped they lived through this so he could tell her how good she was.

"If he's gone why did you lie?"

"Like I said – he threatened to kill me if I told anyone. For all I know he's just hiding out there, listening to us!"

There was another thump as he released her again. "You," Schueller called out, "go check the perimeter." Joe listened to one of the men leave.

"Where would he be going?" Schueller asked.

"I don't know," she answered wearily before gasping in pain again. "I really don't! His accent was Austrian, I think. Ask Greta, she would know better. He could be trying to get back there."

"I should have known," Schueller muttered. "You traitorous bitch."

Joe stiffened, watching the ceiling above him.

"I didn't have a choice," she replied quietly.

"Did he kill that soldier we found?" Schueller continued.

"I don't know. He had blood on him but I didn't ask. It could have been from his injury."

"So he was here when I was talking to you about it?"

To his surprise, Caroline sounded vaguely amused when she answered. "He was standing behind the door, right beside you."

Schueller growled and there was a loud smack.

"Sir," the other soldier interrupted, coming back through the kitchen. "I found some footprints in the mud going to the woods, but there are two sets. One is a man's boot I'm not familiar with and the other appears to be hers."

Joe closed his eyes again, mentally kicking himself. _Fuck_.

"The subject was reported to be wearing medical clothing. The prints weren't from army-issued boots?"

"No, sir. I'm not sure, but I think they may have been the American's style."

 _Shit_. Of all the fucking soldiers to come here it had be one that could read the motherfucking dirt like fucking Daniel Boone.

"What direction are they going?" Schueller's voice was deadly quiet.

"North, but about fifty feet further west I found them coming back."

A tense, heavy pause sounded. He waited for the usual calmness to overtake him, like it usually did before a fight, but all he could think about was Caroline.

"Search the house."

Caroline let out a sharp cry as the floor vibrated with one of the soldiers going back towards the bedroom and the other going into the kitchen.

"Are you fucking lying to me again?" Schueller yelled over the ruckus of furniture being tossed around.

"No!" she responded with a wail.

"Then why the fuck was he wearing American shoes?"

"I don't know! Maybe he stole – " her words were swallowed by another pain-filled shout. It was time to fucking act. The cat was out of the bag and he couldn't stay down here any longer. Schueller was doing something terrible to her.

As if the universe heard his thoughts, the trapdoor ripped open. He instinctively moved back against the wall. He could shoot whoever came down here, but that might trigger Schueller to kill Caroline. He needed to make this quick and quiet to keep those upstairs unaware as long as possible. He moved his rifle down to rest against the wall and a wave of numbness swept over him.

As he watched boots appear at the top of the ladder the noise upstairs dulled away in the background, replaced by all-encompassing, reassuring silence in his head. He felt his heart steady and his breathing slow. His worry and anxiety cleared and his mind narrowed to focus on the body following the feet down the ladder. He had to do this. He had to get them out of here alive. The ice had come back to him and the world bled of color.

His knife slid from the sheaf against his ankle, silently and smoothly.

The man was descending with his back to Joe, one hand fumbling with a flashlight. Joe approached silently, materializing out of the shadows behind him. His drab uniform marked him as general infantry, not the _SS_ that had been here earlier. His poor training showed in his lack of awareness in his surroundings and his subsequent surprise when Joe's hand clinched over his mouth. His skin was cold and slick with sweat. The man lurched with alarm and Joe dragged him back, away from the rectangle of light surrounding the base of the ladder. The flashlight flew, spinning across the stones of the floor.

As the darkness closed around them Joe raised the knife, his brain telling his hand what to do automatically. The soldier's struggles became more frantic as the cold steel lined up with his neck, his panicked cries not making it past Joe's wide, unmoving palm.

The action was fluid and quick, silent and deadly. The familiar warmth splattered onto his hands and he held still, waiting for the last moments of the struggle to play out. The thrashing of arms and legs eventually slowed and the rifle that the man had desperately tried to maneuver into some sort of defensive move slid to the floor. He didn't look down to watch the life slip away, instead keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead.

His jaw ached with the force his fixed on it. This always happened when he did this. He would find his teeth clenched so tightly that he was afraid he would someday accidentally bite off his tongue. He didn't know why it happened – whether it was a reaction to the stress or the only outlet for whatever the ice was holding back. Bastogne left him with a soreness that made it difficult to speak for weeks.

As the dead weight sagged into him he gently slid the body to the floor to ensure the clanking of equipment did not cause alarm.

Above him Schueller was still yelling at Caroline and the soldier was in the kitchen, unaware that their number had diminished to two. He approached the ladder again, listening. His knife glinted a wet black in his hand.

The footfalls in the kitchen went to the hole in the wall before disappearing. The other soldier was outside. This was his opportunity. He darted up the ladder, wrenching to a stop just long enough to take a cursory peek over the edge.

Schueller had Caroline pushed up against the wall by the front door, his hand gripping her hair painfully tight. Her nose was bleeding and he felt the ice grow colder.

His movements went unnoticed as he slid out of the cellar, his eyes focused on Schueller's back. Her face blanched when she spotted him over Schueller's shoulder as he came closer. She didn't say a word, only wincing as Schueller pulled her hair tighter.

"I swear to _God_ if you were hiding a fucking American here you are never going to see the light of day again," he was yelling into her ear. Joe felt his hatred grow and knew _that_ look was on his face again. But she didn't flinch this time. No, those blue eyes seeped into his world of gray, steadily focusing on him in a silent plea he was more than happy to finally answer.

A soft creak to his right had them both whipping their heads around and Joe spied the end of a barrel a split second before he dove and the gunshot made his ears ring. The round whizzed by him, burying itself in the parlor wall. Caroline screamed and Schueller gave a stunned shout.

The other soldier had come back, as silent as a fucking mouse.

Joe rolled as he hit the ground and felt his knife skitter away in the process. Leaping back to his feet, he saw it had slid too far to try to retrieve and instead barreled towards the other man. The soldier jerked the rifle over to Joe's sudden change of position and went to pull the trigger again. Darting forward, Joe pushed it upward and a second round went into the ceiling, showering plaster dust down on them. Wrapping his hands around the burning barrel, he gave it a strong, sharp jab forwards, violently shoving the stock into the soldier's solar plexus. He choked, automatically bending forwards to protect his middle. Advancing, Joe wrapped his hand around the bottom of the grip and punched it upwards, causing the bolt to catch the man's chin and throw his head back.

The soldier lost his footing and fell backwards, but his hands stayed determinedly on the fucking rifle and Joe was dragged down with him. They landed by the breakfast table and Joe planted his knees on either side of the Nazi's stomach, straddling him and giving Joe the leverage to beat the shit out of him. He heard sounds of a struggle behind him and looked over to see Schueller on the ground in agony, holding his groin, and Caroline scrambling over to the knife. Schueller reached out to grab her ankle and yank her back.

Pain exploded in his jaw and as his head snapped to the side he realized the soldier had clocked him and was now trying to throw him off. But it wasn't a strong punch and the pain quickly disappeared under the ice. He tightened his grip on the rifle that was twisted between them, trying to pull it away. The man pulled back with equal ferocity and as they struggled he quickly took stock of his opponent. He was older than Joe and shorter, but stouter by about twenty pounds. Joe had the advantage of position, but if he tried to pry the rifle away with brute strength it would end in a draw if he was lucky.

With this in mind Joe brought his left hand back and delivered his fist into the man's face. The Nazi's head bounced against the floorboards and blood spurted from his lip, but his grip didn't loosen. The struggle behind him intensified and the urge to get back to Caroline had him drawing his fist back again. He would crush this fucker's face in.

Before he could deliver the blow the man's right hand darted into his coat and instead of a punching Joe latched on to the soldier's wrist, stopping the knife that was flying towards his chest. They came to a stalemate again, pushing and pulling against each other as Joe struggled to control both the gun and the hand holding the blade.

A dull rattling sounded and Joe's knife skidded over to rest softly against his leg. The soldier's eyes darted towards it before meeting Joe's again. Joe's face didn't give anything away, but it didn't matter. There was only one way this was going to end.

He slammed his head forward, butting it against the man's face as he released his grip on both the gun and wrist. The German gave out a howl, dropping the rifle but swinging the knife wildly in Joe's direction. Joe distantly heard his uniform tear and felt a stinging on his stomach as he grabbed his own trench knife. The soldier's eyes watered and it was easy to dodge his blind stabs at the blurry figure in front of him.

His fingers fit smoothly around the handle and he wasted no time, shoving the blade in between the soldier's ribs. The man screamed, but it made no difference and seconds later Joe's opponents had been narrowed down to one.

Breathing heavily from the fight he stood, turning to view the scene behind him, his eyes automatically seeking out Caroline.

She stood before him, her expression was a mixture of dread and panic.

Behind her Schueller stood with an arm wrapped around her neck and holding the Luger to her temple.

"Joe," Caroline shakily whispered.

With a grim smile, Schueller pulled the trigger.


	26. Chapter 25

**Oh my goodness! Part of me wants to apologize for leaving that cliffy, but it is so much fun! Thank you guys for the response!**

 **We pick up below. Caroline has a rough chapter. More dark content ahead!**

 **Mngirl - Thanks for the compliment! I hope you like this chapter!**

 **Missavc34 - I hope you had a great holiday! Thanks for the review! I was hoping I was adequately maintaining the tension and I appreciate you saying so!**

* * *

 _The chair is hard and uncomfortable. Humidity clouds the air, soaking the back of my uniform with sweat. My hands are in my lap, my fingernails cutting into my palms as they rest against my thighs._

 _He sits across from me negotiating a rifle back into its fabric case, his thin mustache twitching._

 _You are doing much better than last time, Caroline. I can tell you have been studying._

 _Yes, sir._

 _Now, on to the next one._

 _He pulls out a firearm from a box at his feet._

 _What is this?_

 _The Pistole Parabellum 1908._

 _Also known as?_

 _The Luger P08, sir._

 _Issuance?_

 _Sidearm for the German Army._

 _Caliber?_

 _9 millimeter_

 _Range?_

 _Fifty meters._

 _Magazine capacity?_

 _Eight rounds._

 _Disadvantages?_

 _Difficult to field strip. Requires high pressure ammunition. Light, fast round produces minimal tissue damage if not targeted properly._

 _Advantages?_

 _Low recoil. Durable. Highly accurate._

 _Failure rate?_

 _Less than 0.3%._

* * *

 _Click!_

The world pauses, the three of us as still as statues. As the snapping of gears around a firing malfunction burrow into my brain instead of a bullet I blink, the tension pulling at every fiber of my being fraying the edges of my mind and making me wonder if I really am dead and this is all just an illusion made by the final, dying synapses of a mind begging for an ending that for once isn't bitter with violence.

Blood is everywhere, filling the room with an acrid, metallic stench. A growing pool from the dead man encircles Joe's boots. It is sprayed on his clothes and up to his face. His hands are red, holding a knife that is equally coated and slick. A vision of nightmares, he stands before us, his face impassive with unfeeling reaction to what he has done and his eyes, hooded under his helmet, as cold as winter's freeze. If he were coming for me the effect would be petrifying and horrible, this avenging demon collecting his due in notches on a rifle.

But he isn't. He looks past me to intently focus on the man holding me and I'm not afraid of him. I'm only grateful that he is on my side.

I'm glad it ends this way. I'm glad my last words to him were telling him I love him. I'm glad my death is not a lonely demise in the unkind darkness of isolation.

But I still feel Schueller's arm choking me, still feel the ache of my nose and the drying crust blood has made on my lips. Like a movie reel gaining speed the figures around me slowly re-animate as time starts again and everyone grasps what has happened. Then the noise the Luger has made slowly registers through the finality of my thoughts with dawning comprehension.

The gun didn't fire. I'm still alive.

Several things happen at once.

Schueller's pulls the Luger away from my head, holding it out in front of him in surprise that it failed. The exposed chamber is stuck in the upward position, jammed into place by a misfeed from the magazine.

Joe lunges forward, murder clear on his face and the knife poised.

The arm around my neck rigidly tightens, cutting off my air supply and making me gasp.

Schueller drops the gun and his hands replace his arm to squeeze my throat as he yanks me in front of him like a shield. He backs up until we are flush with the wall.

I can't breathe. _I can't breathe._

Joe skids to a stop, his eyes jumping to my reddening face.

"Back up!" Schueller hisses from behind me. "I'm not going to let her have a fucking molecule of air until you back the fuck up!"

I try to look at Joe but black splotches blot him out. My hands claw at Schueller's grip but it only tightens. The splotches join together and I think I'm going to pass out.

Shoes scuff away and then the pressure diminishes. I gulp, air making a ragged, scraping sound in my swollen throat. Coughing, my legs crumple until I'm yanked back up and Schueller's chest presses into my back.

When I can open my eyes again Joe stands by the far wall, his body rigid and his jaw clenching. His expression has only grown darker, but now his attention lingers on my face as Schueller hides behind me.

My eyes watered in the struggle and I blink to clear them. Joe doesn't speak and waits, clenching his knife so hard the tendons of his hand stand out against his bloody skin.

Keeping his hands around my neck, Schueller guides us over towards the door. "You can understand what I'm saying, can't you? You speak German?" he says, hysteria lacing his voice and making spittle hit the side of my face.

Joe doesn't react, still looking at me. I can see the gears turning behind the emotionlessness expression. Schueller's hands tighten again and I wheeze.

"You do, don't you asshole?" Schueller says angrily. "Answer!"

Joe blinks and slowly moves his gaze over to Schueller to nod. Then, to my disbelief, the knife lowers to his side and his stance relaxes.

 _What?_

The air in the room changes suddenly and swiftly as the ferocity wipes from his face even though Schueller's hands still bite into my skin. He doesn't look at me again even as I stare at him confusedly. What...what is he doing?

Schueller pulls me closer to the door. "I'm fucking leaving here alive, you understand? If you want her to live you aren't going to stop me. If I see you so much as stick your head out the window to look after us I will snap her neck. Got it?"

He's taking me with him as collateral? I instinctively pull away but the hands choke me and I fall back against him. I can't go with him. He's lying. He might not kill me himself, but the people he is going to hand me over to are going to make me regret ever being born.

I look to Joe, wordlessly imploring for some idea of what to do.

He casually leans against the wall, wiping his knife on his pants. He doesn't return my gaze.

"On one condition," he flatly intones.

Schueller lets out a humorless laugh. "You aren't in a position to be making demands. Do as I say or she dies."

Joe shrugs.

My heart plummets.

"She kept me alive and I was trying to return the favor. But now my priority is getting back to the line."

He still doesn't look at me.

"My condition is this: don't send anyone to search for me. As far as you are concerned I was never here."

I feel Schueller's breath rush past my ears as he huffs. "You think I'm joking?" The compression on my neck intensifies. "Fuck your conditions. You'll do as I say or she is dead."

Joe raises an eyebrow. "Go ahead. It'll save me the trouble of having to deal with both of you."

The hands loosen again and I gasp for air. My eyes burn. _What is happening?_

Joe pushes off the wall, facing us. "You will never say a word about my existence. If you don't agree on that condition I will kill you. If you want to use her as some sort of safeguard so be it. But that isn't going to stop me. You are unarmed, with no radio, and out in the middle of nowhere. Do you think you'd have a chance?"

Please give me some sort of signal that this is all a ruse. _Please._

His face is unreadable and empty of any emotion.

I feel myself start to hyperventilate.

"How do I know this isn't a trick?"

"You accept, then? So leave. Write in your report that there was no evidence that I had been here. Make sure no one comes looking for me."

Schueller snorts. "What about my men? Two died and no one was here? Really?"

Joe's eyes flicker to me then, blank and dull.

"Blame her. You are arresting her anyway."

Just as I stiffen with the horror that washes over me he reaches up, idly, to adjust the chain around his neck and his fingers linger on the single dog tag, leaving red streaks over the type.

If I know anything about him nothing he does with that look on his face is idle.

 _I will come back for you._

Then he turns away, walking over to the cellar opening, and I stare after him. He doesn't look back.

There is some sort of plan? I wildly grasp at what that could mean. What could he possibly do from the cellar?

Schueller, seeing Joe's back, loosens one of his hands to grab at the Luger laying by my foot.

"One more thing," Joe calls, peering over the edge of the opening and stopping his climb down the ladder.

My heart pounds with anticipation. Schueller jerks back up and holds me closer.

"When we take this village – when we take this country – there won't be anywhere for you to hide. Remember that when you report what happened here."

His head disappears down the ladder.

I wait for him to pop back up, to come out with his rifle blazing. But there is nothing and distantly I feel Schueller pulling me out the door.

Did I read him right? That was some sort of signal, wasn't it? He will come _back_ for me. Does he think I will be held in the village? Is he going to leave me with Schueller for the battle?

He'll never find me if the doctor gets his hands on me. Joe doesn't know how little time I have until there is no saving me. My stomach drops with the knowledge that he doesn't know how bad it will be for me if Schueller makes that phone call.

And he most certainly will do it. Schueller is already muttering something about me getting my comeuppance as he drags me through the yard, his hand still around my neck. My leaden feet stagger across the grass. The doorway looms behind us, empty of anyone as we go through the gate to the car.

He will save me… won't he? I can't leave. I can't get into the car. _Please, Joe._

Cursing and glancing nervously over his shoulder, Schueller wrenches open the car door and I'm being shoved inside. No one emerges from the house.

I land heavily on the leather seat and immediately scramble to escape through the other side.

 _He isn't coming,_ my terrified mind whispers.

I can't go with Schueller. My fingertips just brush the door handle when I'm yanked back by my hair. His fist collides with the side of my head, making my vision blurry and my ears ring. Losing my equilibrium, I slide down to the muddy floor as a wave of nausea pushes up my throat.

When my eyes clear Schueller is sitting in the driver's seat, struggling to unjam the Luger. His uniform is rumpled and stained with my blood and his normally slicked hair is matted. The slide refuses to budge and with another glance at the house he shoves it into the holster at his waist. I go to pull myself up on the seat but everything is unsteady and I fall back, grabbing my head.

The car starts and my panic ratchets higher. Clawing my way back up I try to make it to the door again but Schueller stomps on the gas, throwing me into the seatback. My nose collides with the cushion and with a fresh flash of pain I feel more blood leaking out.

 _Where is he?_

Schueller shifts gears to go faster and reaches out to grab my neck again, his eyes furious and wild.

"You fucking bitch," he screams. "You fucking traitorous, conniving bitch!"

We slide around a curve and I'm thrown against the passenger door. As the back of my head hits the window I fumble, my hand finding the cold metal latch. We are going far too fast for me to survive a jump but being dead would be better than what awaits me at the end of this car ride.

The lock has just disengaged when Schueller hits me again, giving me a blow to my stomach, and pulls me away by my feet. I cough, curling into myself.

"I can't wait to call the doctor," he continues. "I can't wait to watch what they are going to do to you." A sadistic grin breaks through the hate and anger on his face. I stare at him, too addled to respond. "You are going to suffer and I'm going to wa – "

It sounds like a rock hits the window behind him, a large one. It doesn't even register with me until Schueller gives a ragged cry and the car swerves. I'm flung into him, crushing up again his side. As I struggle to brace myself against him he droops forward and I see what has happened.

A bullet hole. A perfectly round bullet hole directed right at Schueller makes a spider web of cracks up the glass. Schueller gives a wet, shuddering breath. A dark red stain grows across his chest.

 _Joe._

The car lurches again as he slides sideways, the tires skidding on the gravel. His grip goes limp on the steering wheel and I grab it before we speed off into a ditch. We are still speeding and the wheel fights me as I try to guide us to a stop. Kicking at his feet to knock them off the pedals, I use the splint to hit the gear shift, desperately hoping to stall us. The road dips ahead, winding into a sharp curve that I know is going to make us crash.

"Fuck!" I hear myself scream. I climb over Schueller and stomp at the floorboard, trying to hit the unseen brake. Finally my foot hits a metal lever off to the side. The parking brake.

I stamp on it, throwing the car into a lower gear. The engine sputters and seizes and we slide off the into the woods as the road veers to the right. There is a loud crack and the steering wheel slams into my chest as we stop. Schueller collides with my back, letting out a groan.

For a moment we sit there, a cloud of dust swirling outside the windows and the broken pieces of the evergreen we hit laying across the hood. The abrupt silence is deafening, broken only by the soft ticking of the engine.

My entire body aches. Taking a breath, I swipe at my nose, leaving a thick red streak on my forearm. Pain drubs through my head and I lean forward until the cold steel of the steering wheel presses just above my eyebrows. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to conjure the energy to move. I had come too close, too near the end I have been trying to avoid all these years.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel as they shake. I try to reassure myself that Joe saved me, that I wasn't ever going to go back there, but my thoughts weave through one another, twisting together until nothing but that constant pulse of pain is all I can register.

Schueller gives another groan interspersed with his steady, raspy breaths.

Footsteps run along the gravel outside. A few seconds later the door is yanked open to allow fresh air into the dank, bloody interior of the car.

God, I hope it's Joe.

I muster the strength to roll my head over to look towards whoever has come upon this disaster. I notice his deep brown eyes first, peering at me from under the helmet, shining like amber in the soft beams of sunlight filtering through the trees to break across his face. He is breathing hard, jostling the rifle slung over his shoulder. The impassive look is gone, replaced by something soft and unnamable as his eyes dart over my form.

It is him. My Joe.

"Are you okay?" He leans in, his hands grasping at me, to tug me out. I nod dazedly, allowing him to extricate me from the tangle of Schueller and the steering wheel. As soon as I'm free I cautiously balance myself on my feet until I know my rubbery legs won't collapse under me. I don't try to speak, focusing instead on drawing breath through my chest and shaking off the buzzing stupor clogging my thoughts.

He holds on to me until I'm steady then his hands are running over me worriedly, wiping at the blood from my nose and probing through my hair for any more injuries. I grimace as he finds the growing goose egg the window made on the back of my skull and the purpling spot Schueller made by my ear. My splinted had throbs, my neck is sore from being strangled, and my abdomen protests with every breath. I'm pretty sure I'm falling apart.

Joe is talking frantically as he checks me. I vaguely hear him say that he didn't want to attack Schueller in the house while I was so close, that he hoped Schueller would let his guard down if he thought Joe wasn't coming after him, that he meant to kill Schueller before we sped off but there wasn't a clear shot and so he had to cut through the woods to get ahead of us.

"You understood my signal, right?" He cups my face, peering down at me. I nod again, savoring the warmth of his hands on my icy skin.

"You knew I wasn't really going to let him take you?"

I swallow and my sore throat convulses. Tears prick my eyes. I don't want to lie. He came after me when he didn't have to and now I'm ashamed that I doubted him.

"It's okay," he says and his thumb strokes my cheek. "I should have gotten to you sooner."

Then I'm being enveloped against him, pressing into the soft folds of his jacket to rest against the hardness of his chest. I close my eyes again as he holds me, savoring his presence around me and that it means that I am still free and still alive.

When I finally draw back his uniform is now smudged with my blood too, a bright red spot on the already blackening, dirty fabric. He grasps my hand.

"I have your bag, back by the house. Are you ready to get the hell out of here?"

I go to smile my affirmative when my body suddenly jerks backwards. Something is _pulling_ me into the interior of the car. The blood drains from my face as a hand digs into waist of my skirt and wheezing fills my ears.

Schueller is still alive.

My feet slide across the ground and I feel myself falling onto the car seat as my good hand struggles to grip the door frame. For an unnerving moment I think he going to succeed in dragging me completely inside, locking Joe out and leaving me to my fate.

Joe's expression falls as he realizes what is happening and then he is diving towards me. His shoulder presses into my face as his arm wraps around my waist, yanking me back. With a _rip_ the grip on my skirt releases. In one movement I'm pulled into his side and whirled away until my vision spins with dizziness.

His arm slips from me and when I regain my bearings I find myself behind him. Schueller is half laying out of the car, the wrist of the hand that had been holding me bent in an awkward position is Joe's fist.

Joe turns, dragging Schueller by his captured hand until his legs fall out and he lying flat in the dirt. He is pale, with pink foam gathering at the edges of his mouth.

Joe is furious, the sentiment on his face seconds ago long gone. As I watch his expression goes hard again and look to Schueller, knowing his fate is sealed.

"Still alive?" Joe mutters as his knuckles go white around the Nazi's fist, crushing it for a moment before releasing it to grab his rifle.

Schueller pulls himself up the best he can until his back is against the fender. He lets out a chuckle that quickly diminishes to a hacking cough. More pink dribble flies from his mouth.

"You're going to get what's coming to you," he says between gasps. I think it's a generic threat against Joe until his eyes narrow on me. "Do you think he's going to let you go so easily? Do you think the Americans are going to save you?"

I feel my jaw clench.

"Shut up," Joe growls as he fits the rifle into his shoulder. Schueller blinks rapidly, moving his hazy focus over to him.

"I would bet she hasn't told you everything she's done. I saw the star. You're a Jew, aren't you?"

Joe frowns.

My breath catches.

But Schueller doesn't know anything. There is nothing he can say. He's dying. He's lost his mind and is just babbling.

I tell myself to move, to speak, to do _something_ , but I feel like I am rooted to the spot, paralyzed. The buzzing in my ears intensifies.

Schueller closes his eyes briefly. When they open again they are full of hate.

"You'll find out soon enough. Find out what a fucking idiot you've been and how well she's played you. Fucking _kike -_ "

Joe lashes out, striking him in the face and stopping the rest of the insult. I stand numbly.

"I said to shut up," he warns in an icy voice.

Schueller coughs, looking at me once more. "Go to hell, Caroline. Figures you would fuck a Jew. Just like your whore of a mother."'

My eyes widen. Ice floods my veins.

 _Whore of a mother_.

Schueller looks triumphant.

 _He knows._

The pain in my head intensifies, stabbing into my skull. He knows everything.

No wonder he's hated me from the beginning. No wonder I never had a chance. I thought he was just told of my dissent in the doctor's program. But no. He knows my past. He knows everything about me.

The bruises he gave me burn across my skin.

God, _this headache_.

Greta. Schueller. Who else? Who the fuck else has been playing me like some sort of fucking puppet?

There is a reason I came here. One that involved not being handled like a child any longer. Of refusing to be told what to do. Of being disgusted by everything around me.

And it made no difference. The only thing that changed was that I suffered more. The man behind the curtain was still there, controlling _everything_. I was just too stupid to realize it.

All the times I smarted off to Schueller I used what I thought was his ignorance to keep me safe. But he's been holding this card up his sleeve, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce on me.

And it is going to be now, in his last moments.

 _Whore of a mother._

I can tell he is enjoying this, too, by the gleam in his eye even as he struggles to breathe.

Pain throbs through my head, curling down my neck to settle in my chest. Jesus, the last few years have been for _nothing_.

The lack of food, the hard labor, the loneliness, the boiling hot days and icy cold nights in that hovel. The pure misery. _NOTHING._

Breath pushes out of my nose, hard. These would be his last _fucking_ moments.

Joe, too, has had enough. He aims at Schueller and Schueller baulks despite himself, sliding along the side of the car and leaving a red streak on the paint.

"Wait," I say. It's the first word I've spoken and my voice comes out rough and hoarse. They both pause and Joe carefully turns his head towards me.

Through the red, shimmering anger _his_ voice whispers like the hiss of a snake. For once I don't draw back. No, I _embrace_ it.

 _What I tell you to do may seem ugly and senseless._

"I don't want you to shoot him," I continue as I start walking towards Schueller.

 _But that is because we have allowed ourselves to become ugly and senseless._

He eyes my approach and crows, "Turned into some bleeding heart, did you? I always knew you didn't have what it takes to be a Party member. People like you are why we are losing…"

His voice dies as I reach towards him, going for the holster at his side.

 _You will fight for us, Caroline. You will become one of us. Why wouldn't you?_

I open the flap and Schueller tries to grab me. Joe stops him with a knee to his chest, pressing against the wound. With a cry he goes limp. Joe remains quiet, but I feel his eyes on me.

 _How long will it take to break you?_

The Luger is still jammed. I step back, yanking the magazine free as I do so.

 _You are my greatest creation._

With the magazine clear I pull the slide back and the misfed round falls to the earth with a soft clink.

 _This is your final test._

"What are you doing?" Schueller asks, his voice going higher.

I re-insert the magazine and pull the slide again to chamber a round.

 _Prove your loyalty._

"You don't have the guts," he blusters. Joe moves away to stand back, his gaze level and unperturbed as he silently watches. Schueller looks around wildly, as help could suddenly materialize in the woods on this lonely stretch of road. I point the gun, aimed at his forehead.

 _Pull the trigger._

"Fuck – " He is drowned out by the gunshot. The recoil shudders up my arm.

More blood. Schueller slumps over. Joe doesn't react.

I lower the gun, unblinkingly watching the scene before me. I don't move as Joe's warmth appears at my side. He gently slides the Luger from my grip. I don't fight him. I'm done. This is over.

 _You always were my best student._

I guess some things never change.


	27. Chapter 26

**Hello! Sorry that this chapter is late! I have been trying really hard to keep my pace at a chapter a week but work got busy and the holidays snuck up on me and yada, yada, yada. You guys know how it is :). I hope you enjoy it!**

 **Unfortunately it is 1 AM and I am dead on my feet, so I can't respond to the guest reviews individually on here tonight. But thank you so much mngirl, Luckylily, and Missavc34! I really appreciate you guys reviewing.**

* * *

Schueller fucking deserved it.

He was a coward, a psychopath, an evil creature perpetuating the awful regime that emblazoned his uniform with useless medals and ribbons. He lived to cause pain and relished every second it, embodying the twisted heart pulsing in Berlin. An execution was coming to him either on the battlefield or in the afterglow of American victory. Inevitably, inescapably.

Unfortunately for him this foregone conclusion had come sooner than that. And although he surely envisioned a heroic fight to the death in the turmoil of a last stand, it was instead a wheezing whimper against the dented fender of a 1932 Mercedes in the silent isolation of the forest.

A pity, some would think.

Joe stared at the pathetic husk of the man laying before them. He wanted to kill Schueller. Had been ready since Schueller's first knock on the door those nights ago. He didn't shy away from his satisfaction when his first bullet aimed true and even felt irritating disappointment when he found the man still hung on to life. It would have been a fitting end to his stay behind the lines, an event marking the finale of this enlightening and terrifying experience.

But Caroline had gotten there first.

She stood next to him, as still and mute as the trees surrounding their little scene. The Luger he had pried from her was warm and smoking in his hand. Her focus didn't waver from the Nazi who had tormented her for God knows how long and was now nothing more than another body in this long, unforgiving war.

She hadn't blinked and her aim hadn't hesitated. She had slayed Schueller ruthlessly and no, that didn't trouble him in the slightest. As he looked upon her face, he knew she was in that place that was so familiar to him. The one of darkness, survival, anger, and hatred. Where killing was a necessity but also a catharsis. It may not be as comfortable to her, but he knew it just the same and took solace in the fact that she understood as well as he did what war did to people.

It was horrible, destructive, and couldn't be over soon enough.

He thought of all the naïve gazes and intrusive questions he was pestered with while on leave. _What is it like over there?_ _Have you killed any Jerries?_ Or worse, the patronizing, sympathetic _'it sounds awful'_ followed by the halfhearted pat on his back as if he was a fucking imbecile needing those pathetic attempts at consolation by someone who didn't have a goddamn clue. Any thought that he could relax was shattered as he found himself guarded and nervous that he was going to lose it on some poor civilian whose only crime was being ignorant.

It made being back on the front almost a fucking relief.

After the incident in the woods he was wary that it was going to be the same way with her. That he was going to have to walk on eggshells until this mess was over and he no longer had to worry about being a soldier and being a killer. Even her ' _I love you'_ didn't loosen the knot of uneasiness sitting deeply in his gut like the sight before him did.

He knew it fucked up - the fact that she just shot someone making him feel more at ease. But so was everything fucking else on this continent and if there was one more thing that endeared her to him it was that she was never going to ask him any of those damn questions and he was never going to have to answer with dumb platitudes to protect her sensibilities. They were equals and their shared knowledge of the brooding hideousness of what happened here meant such conversations had no place between them.

And his heart tore for her, this woman who now saw him better than anyone else ever had. Despite the necessity of it there is still something that breaks inside when a life is taken. A part of the better half of a person, dissolving into the ether and leaving a progressively more broken and demented soul behind. Even if this put them on the same level, he didn't want any pieces of Caroline to disappear. He didn't want her to turn inwards, ripping herself apart from the inside either in guilt or anger or whatever was going through her head right now like he almost did.

He didn't want her to decide that she was already dead and wasn't worth saving. And he certainly didn't want her to develop the frigid shell he still used.

His hand rose to lightly skim her back to let her know that he was there without breaking the steady silence that had befallen them. To softly tell her that she wasn't alone. Underneath his fingertips her body vibrated minutely, revealing to him the tight tension running through her.

She gasped then, sucking in air like a drowning person finding the surface, and turned away from her handiwork towards him. Her pale face was soiled red with blood from her nose and her mouth was drawn into a hard expression that almost made her unrecognizable. Her eyes were unfocused and he didn't think she saw him.

"He would be so proud," she murmured to herself, her voice harsh.

His hand dropped back to his side and he waited for her to say more, to reveal what was hidden in the troubled depths of her gaze. The familiarity she had with the pistol and the puzzle of Schueller's words merely added to the weight of his questions for her, the ones he promised to ask only after they were safe.

She knew it too, and as she focused on him standing before her the bitter expression dropped into a mourning one. Her eyes softened sadly and she took a remorseful breath, bracing herself as she spoke to him.

"There is something I need to tell you." Her voice was so quiet it was almost lost to the wind even though she was merely inches away.

He didn't know if responding would come across as encouraging or demanding, so he remained where he was and hoped his quietness would serve as a reassuring confessional for the light she was about to shed on the heaviness that hung around her. The loose strands of her hair blew into her face, sticking to the tacky blood, and she impatiently swiped them away. Breaking away from him, she looked back towards the body and another tremble shook her limbs. As the silence stretched he could almost feel her slipping away, losing the fleeting courage to share her secrets. Whatever it was, the struggle to voice it to him was so great her shoulders slumped in defeat and her mouth stayed stubbornly closed.

His boots scraped across the ground as he closed in on her, his hands instinctually reaching out to hold her to him to somehow relieve the awfulness that gripping her. He couldn't think of anything to say to break the dam holding her back and forced down his biting curiosity until he knew it wouldn't leap out with a painful flurry of questions. She had just killed a man. She was still covered in his blood as well as her own. He told himself he didn't want this to destroy her and now he was afraid one word from either of their lips would cause her to fall apart.

She leaned against him, shuddering in the cold breeze and smelling of copper and fear. The sun was dipping low in the sky, stretching the shadows of the trees to throw them into the dimming evening. He knew they should go. He knew time was of the essence and the last thing they needed to do was linger by the body of the Nazi they killed. But he remained still, letting her burrow into him for the security she craved to pull herself back together, understanding that she needed this more than anything else.

When she finally pulled back night had pooled around them and his breath fogged in the air chilled with the last grip of winter. As she separated herself he realized he was still holding the Luger and shoved it into his waistband, shaking his hand free of the cramp his grip caused. Despite moving away she still clung at his jacket, seemingly unwilling to break their physical connection. He gently took her hand into his own, realizing that their moment was over and the focus on surviving had resumed as their goal. She seemed to understand this as well and followed him past the hulking outline of the car, not looking at the shadow slumped over beside it.

They had just stepped into the depth of the trees, letting the silver light of the rising moon guide them, when a flash of headlights broke through the darkness along the road and Caroline's hand dug into his own with sudden alarm.

 _Well, shit_. He may have said that out loud, for Caroline started running and as second later he took off too, falling into step behind her. The faint forms of the trees flew by them and his boots dug into the uneven ground as he kept his eyes on her figure flashing through the moon beams. Back at the road he could hear the vehicle slowing and he prayed it was to negotiate the curve rather than the sight of the Mercedes peeking out from the tree line to draw their curiosity.

The terrain sloped downward and Caroline barely paused, sliding unsteadily on her heels to the bottom of the hill. He followed and she looked back to him, waiting until he was near her again before continuing onward. They flew through the forest, remarkably maintaining their footing despite barely seeing the path before them. When the ground rose back up it was a rocky incline similar to the one she nearly killed herself on earlier. Likewise, she scrambled up this one too, slowing as she reached a near vertical angle with rocks too far apart for her to gain a foothold. He looked back as he stopped by her, but the way behind them was absent of any sign of pursuers.

That didn't mean a fucking thing.

Readjusting his rifle on his shoulder he wrapped his hands around her waist to give her a boost, lifting her up to the nearest rock. He climbed up after her and they repeated the process until they reached the top. Then they were running again.

As the moon rose higher his legs went numb and the stitch in his side tightened. Neither of them slowed, even though he knew her energy was depleted by the lack of food and the beating she endured. But she didn't say a word, keeping up with him as they made their way south. There were no other noises in the woods besides the frantic pounding of their feet and their panting breaths, but they pushed onwards through the darkness.

The silver light was at its brightest overhead when she finally stumbled, falling to her hands and knees before him. He halted, collapsing to crouch beside her. They didn't speak, too focused on gulping air into their wheezing lungs. The cold burned down the back of his throat into his chest. She stayed on all fours, her head hung down towards the ground.

The woods were thrown into shades of gray by the moon and didn't give as much as a whisper. The stillness was as eerie as it was reassuring. He could hear no one following, but the absolute silence reminded him of the Ardennes. A frozen quiet, as if the earth was holding its breath and waiting for the next disaster that was surely coming. A tingle went up his spine that had nothing to do with the frost lining the thin blades of grass around them. His mind urged him to keep going, but the struggling gulps of air coming from Caroline made him pause. She fell back to sit against a tree, a thin line of sweat coating her forehead as her chest heaved.

"Rest," he told her. "But we need to start moving again soon."

She nodded and he pulled out his canteen to give to her. As she drank he looked around again, but the forest only stared formidably back at him. He moved his rifle to lay across his lap.

Caroline gave a soft cough as she handed back the water. "Do you know where we are?" she asked weakly.

He was pretty sure they managed to keep an even course due south based on the position of the moon, but dug out his compass to peer at it in the dim light. "I'm not sure, but we should keep going in this direction. We'll have to run into the line sooner or later." He bit back a frustrated sigh. He hoped they were getting close. Both sides seemed to be dug in for the night if the silence was anything to go by. It made it goddamn difficult to judge where they were in relation to the Americans. "Either that or we'll eventually end up in fucking Austria," he muttered.

She nodded and curled up against the tree, shivering as the heat of their run dispersed through her thin sweater and he frowned. He knew this would fucking happen. His own jacket was so weighed down with their supplies that to give it to her would just make it harder for her to run. _Goddammit_ , he thought as he moved over to her, pulling her against him to share body heat.

When her trembling softened he opened one of the ration tins. He couldn't tell what it was, but it didn't matter anyway as he barely tasted it, his senses focused on what might be coming behind them.

Still that fucking unnerving silence.

She shared the food with him, eating quickly and soundlessly. When they were done he shoved the empty can back into his leg pocket. If someone were looking for them he needed to leave no trace to follow.

"You ready?" he asked as he stood, slinging his rifle on his shoulder and reaching down to help her up. Her small, cold hand slipped into his and as she got to her feet the stillness around them finally splintered with a distant call from the north. A human voice too far to understand, but shouting none the less. He stiffened, his head whipping in the direction it came from, but he saw nothing.

The noise continued. There was more than one voice and… something else. Caroline let out a distressed noise beside him.

"Dogs," she confirmed for him, her voice a shaky whisper.

" _Fuck_ ," he hissed. He went to pull her into a run again, but stopped, the worst outcome in all this running across his mind.

"Here." He took the Luger from his waistband to pass to her. "Just in case."

She bit her lip as a quivering hand wrapped around the grip.

Then they were flying through the woods, the sounds of their pursuers hot on their heels.

* * *

He knew they were getting close just as the moon began to set.

The trees around them began to thin, their number decimated by artillery. The grass beneath their feet gave way to churned mud and pits filled with murky water. The unmistakable smell of smoke and burning oil filled the air.

Caroline was barely staying upright as they dragged themselves onwards. He remained behind her, guiding her if she veered off course and catching her when she tripped. They were slowing down, he discerned, from exhaustion.

The voices and the barking behind them were growing louder. The back of his neck itched, as if their hunters were breathing directly on it.

As they navigated through the battle scared landscape he went on high alert, waiting to find the entrenched German soldiers they were destined to come across before they made it to the other side. Caroline seemed to sense the enhanced danger as well and slowed to a walk, placing her feet carefully to avoid alerting anyone that they were nearby. The Luger flashed in the weak light as she gripped it tightly. He moved his rifle to rest in front of him, ready to fire, and with his free hand he grabbed her arm, pulling her behind him to take the lead.

In the deepening night ahead the sounds he had been waiting for emerged. The sounds he knew so well. The hushed whispers from foxholes. The soft rustling of gear. The faint smell of cigarettes. The sounds of footsteps and the occasional low chuckle of laughter. It was all in German still, but it was music to his ears. They had reached the line.

He stopped and Caroline bumped into him. Ducking down into the brush, he pulled her close.

"Stay near me," he ordered, his voice as quiet as he could make it. "Follow my lead. We'll have to try to sneak by them."

She moved her head to show she understood and he watched concernedly as she swayed against him, her face vacant with fatigue. She was on her last leg, but didn't complain as he drew her to her feet.

"Just a little further sweetheart," he murmured into the hair covering her ear. "Then everything is going to be okay."

Her splinted hand crossed his own and he thought she gave him a faint smile through the darkness. Pressing his lips into her temple, he turned to start carefully making his way through the maze of foxholes and patrol lines. His company and her safety were so achingly close that part of him wanted to just break out into a sprint for it and let the chips fall where they may.

It would be stupid and reckless. It would have been something he would have done before meeting her.

So he led them from shadow to shadow, pausing at each to ensure they could move forward. She stayed so close to him her ragged breathing hit his back and he could almost hear her heart pounding. Behind him the voices that had been their bane for the night were finally intelligible.

"I need to speak to your commander! A partisan killed a Party officer and is trying to cross the line. Are you fucking deaf? Go get him! She might have an American soldier with her!"

The voice sounded upsettingly like Henrich's and she shook against him. Clenching his jaw, he moved them from their shelter in a copse of tangled, dead vines to the next – a gouged bit of ground against a large tree. There was the distant sound of a truck engine and more talking.

"-dogs tracked them here. The man is tall, with brown hair. He is reported to be wearing medical cloth– "

His eavesdropping was interrupted when the sound of someone traipsing through the undergrowth came from the other side of the tree. Caroline inhaled sharply and straightened the arm that held the Luger. His own rifle weighed in his hands as the footsteps came closer. The smell of a lit cigarette filtered through the air and he briefly thought of his knife. Any noise and they were done for. He couldn't be sure he could kill the man quickly enough.

The bark of the tree bit into his back as he pressed deeper into the obscurity of the hollow. As the crackling of dead leaves breaking under boots rounded the tree he tensed, ready to shove out and fire. It would bring the hammer of the Germany army down on them, but maybe she could make it over and one of them could survive.

In the back of his mind, though, he had a feeling she wouldn't leave him. _Son of a bitch_.

He make out a figure now, outlined in the fading moonlight. They stayed utterly motionless as the man stopped, feet from them. The lit cigarette in his mouth flared as he inhaled, briefly illuminating a rough face under a German helmet. The rifle in his hands clattered as he shifted, kicking at the ground.

What the fuck was he doing? Joe wet his lips, his muscles aching with the strain. Beside him Caroline wasn't even breathing. He prayed the darkness of the tree was deep enough to cover them.

" _Leutnant_!" There was more crashing through the undergrowth and a second figure emerged. A young private. Joe bit back a curse that there was now fucking two soldiers standing right on top of them. "Your presence is requested at the command tent, sir, immediately."

The older man grunted, finishing his cigarette. "I imagine it has something to do with whatever that obnoxious _SS_ officer was yelling about?"

At least he and this Nazi agreed on one thing.

"I believe so, sir."

There was a sigh. "Very well." The shadows stirred and the footsteps shifted away, but a cloud moved across the moon and he lost sight of both of them in the sudden blackness.

He waited another few moments, but the normal sounds of the men encamped around their hiding spot resumed.

He felt for Caroline and squeezed her arm to let her know they were moving again. Silently they rose and he went towards the gathering of bushes he spied before that fucker wandered by. Caroline was so quiet he could barely tell she was still behind him and as the branches of the bush caught on his uniform a distant hope that they actually might make it fluttered through his chest.

The cloud moved, illuminating everything again and he found that he had reached the security of the thick branches.

A gasp came from behind him. He spun back around, his heart dropping to his feet.

Caroline stood, unmoving in the silver light, her hands in front of her as if she was trying to find her way in the darkness. She had gotten separated from him and he didn't notice.

Less than a few strides away stood the private, a crumpled pack of cigarettes in one hand and a lighter in the other, both forgotten.

For a precarious, terrible moment nothing happened. He went to raise his rife, but his hands seemed to move in achingly slow motion. As he brought it to his shoulder and aimed it he took in the last passing second of the peace their hiding had afforded.

 _Fuck._

The gunshot was deafening. It echoed through the woods, alerting everyone that they had been found.

The private crumpled to the ground.

" _Run_!"

His screamed command shook her out of her shock and she dashed towards him. Grabbing her as she got close, he shoved her ahead of him and they broke through the trees. Up ahead he could see the bare, blistered stretch of no man's land. _So close_.

All around them there were startled shouts and yelled orders. As they weaved and darted forwards the _pop pop pop_ of gunfire peppered from all sides. He felt the familiar rush course through him as the air filled with bullets following their hellish race. The trees around them showered limbs as they were hit and the mud churned at their feet. The pain from his aching jaw shot through his head.

Caroline suddenly fell and for a heart-stopping moment he thought she had been hit. But then her feet kicked to find purchase on the wet ground and she lifted herself upwards. Jerking her up by the back of her blouse, he set her upright and tugged her back into a run. She wordlessly followed, her panicked panting reaching his ears over the firefight.

They surged out of the trees, out into the bare stripe of land dividing the two sides. He pushed them to run faster, knowing that there was nowhere to hide for the next five hundred feet.

A pop sounded behind them, followed by a loud hiss. Then the world burst into vision under a bright, white light. They set off a fucking flare. _Shit!_

"Joe," Caroline called next to him over the clamor, hopelessness leaking into her voice. She knew how bad this was, to be sighted and out in the open. He looked over to her, his face pulling into a determined frown.

They had come too far. She was going to _fucking_ survive this.

The din was suddenly broken with the rapid fire of a machine gun and the ground off to his side boiled with bullets. They creeped over to him as the gunner calibrated his aim, and Joe knew there was no escaping it.

 _I love you, Caroline._

He threw himself at her, tackling her and covering her with his body. She landed with a cry and he clutched at her, waiting for the machine gun to rip him to shreds. He could feel it coming closer, vibrating the earth with the impact of the rounds. He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. She screamed.

He never imagined his death would be like this.

He was knocked over, falling into nothing. Before he could decide if he was sinking into the afterworld he landed on his back, the jolt shaking him. Then her soft form fell on top of him and the smell of her hair filled his nose.

His eyes snapped back open.

The sky rose above him, turning indigo with the coming dawn. It was framed by the rising edges of the ground and he blinked in confusion. She lifted her head to meet his gaze and the sound of gunfire continued to reverberate outside the hole.

A hole. She had rolled them into an artillery crater.

"Get me mortars! Blow that fucking hole up!" a German voice screamed.

She scrambled up, but he dragged her back down before her head made it into the kill zone.

There were more shouts and someone giving coordinates of their position. The machine gun continued, pinning them in place. She had bought them a few minutes, at most.

He dropped his rifle, his hands going to her face.

She looked at him, tears in her eyes.

Her lips were ready for his and she kissed him hard.

The first mortar missed, going wide. He could feel her heart beating through her chest.

The second did too, coming short. Dirt rained down on them. He clutched her tighter.

Then, as they waited for the third and fatal one, another shout burst over them.

"Easy Red, Easy Red! Contact right! Bearing 0-2-0. Fire for effect, over!"

A low wail sounded and they tore apart. Above them he spied a shell cut across the sky and then everything shook as the German line exploded. The machine gun abruptly cut off and a wave of dust rolled across the hole. More shells sailed over to blast into the enemy position and they lay there, clutching each other, watching the American artillery destroy the men trying to kill them.

In hot Julys of his childhood there were always fireworks shows, big ones down at the East River. Everyone went, packing into the subways or making the long walk to set up camp at the shore. He tried to join them once, hoofing it down there since he couldn't afford a riding token. The first burst of color had barely lit the sky when the other boys found him and chased him all the way back to his neighborhood, screaming at him that Jews weren't welcome. Because of that he took to his roof, spending those summer nights laying on his back and watching the show from a distance, staying out there until his father stumbled home and yelled for him. Every now and then he could hear distant cheers and laughter floating on the wind and when he closed his eyes he would dream that he was down there with them, having a grand time like the other children with other, normal families.

Now, as the explosions shook feet from him, he found himself laughing. Joyously laughing that he was in the fucking middle of the fantasy he always had. He didn't feel the fear that permeated his bones in Bastigone. The shells weren't coming for him. So he relaxed into the dirt, watching the show the American military had put on for him and knowing that it was better than anything he could have seen as a kid, because instead of just bright colors the explosions meant the end of the men who had tortured Caroline and the end of his grand adventure behind enemy lines.

When the air finally settled and the dust floated over them Caroline looked up from where she lay on his chest, in awe as he was at the display of firepower.

"What do we do now?" she whispered, her eyes full of anticipation.

He opened his mouth to answer when a figure materialized in the dirty air at the edge of the hole, seemingly drawn by her voice. As the breeze swirled the dust he recognized the silhouette. American.

"Flash." The call came out and he leaned down to whisper back. "Whatever we want, darlin'. We made it."

He felt her smile as his voice rose to call back.

"Thunder."

* * *

 **Awww, I hope that wasn't too sappy. But a bit of an FYI - it ain't over for them yet. Not by a long shot ;)**


	28. Chapter 27

**I hope the American readers had a great holiday! The best thing about a four day weekend? A super long chapter! Enjoy!**

 **Thanks for the review, Luckylily!**

* * *

I feel like I am moving through a dream.

Hazy figures pass through the grimy, saturated air. Joe is pulling me - carrying me, really – across the decimated earth towards the strange shapes ahead of us. We are rushing, and dimly behind me I hear yelling. Voices in my own language, familiar and harsh words that are fading away for the new clipped English to fill my ears. I register the shock in the tone of the man with us as he leads us further into the American line, the disbelief at the sight before him.

Maybe he thinks this isn't real as well.

We are passing through a hedgerow when the soldiers we are retreating from recover enough to start the incessant pops of gunfire again. Joe's grip tightens on me and then we are jumping into a shallow hole. A second American is entrenched here and he shouts with surprise as he takes in Joe. Hearty slaps on the back are exchanged and Joe's smile is genuine and striking against his dirty, tired face.

The cracking pops on the other side of the cloudy darkness intensify and the men turn away, their guns raised once more. Joe gently leads me down to sit back against the crumbling wall of soil behind them. My aching legs give out gratefully and my head lolls back, my sore neck suddenly too overwhelmed to hold it up any longer. My hand goes slack and the Luger thumps heavily to my feet. I look up to him, wanting to grasp at him as he goes to pull away.

"Stay here," he tells me, his voice rough and urgent. "Don't move until I come back."

I don't think I could even if I wanted to. He leaves me, joining the other two at the far side and raising his rifle as well. The noise intensifies and I indifferently watch the sharp flickers of metal in the faint light as the empty casings spin out of his rifle to fall at his feet.

Adrenaline should still be keeping me going. The bullets striking around us mean we aren't out of the woods yet and being surrounded by these strangers, with their unknown language and suspicion of Germans that likely rivaled Joe's, should make me nervous about what is to come. But the relief of making it, of crossing that invisible line to keep me out of reach of my tormentors, means I slump heavily into myself, shutting out the noise and the cold and the throbbing pain from my body.

I was sure we were going to die. As I listened to the mortars fall around us I struggled to make peace with myself, to convince myself that I had done enough and an eternity of suffering wasn't waiting for me at the end of that third explosive shell.

I wasn't successful. I know saving Joe wasn't enough to make up for all I had done. After all, hadn't he really saved me? Didn't he take me from that prison of a house, ripping me from the claws of Greta and Schueller and the doctor? Didn't he come after me to lead me through the forest and, ultimately, to safety?

Hadn't he killed for me?

And what have I done? Hide him? Not a hard feat when you live in the middle of nowhere. Sew him up? Pure luck that he didn't die anyway. Even the most basic of necessities, food, wasn't something I could provide. He had to hike through the woods to that plane to get it.

My head sinks into the wet dirt and I feel it crumble down into my collar.

The only thing I managed to do was let the darkness take me again. Even now, as I picture the last second of Schueller's life, there is a surge of perverse pleasure in my gut that tells me my efforts to reform myself have been in vain. I am still the terrible person they made me to be. The gun still fits in my hand like an extension of my body, comforting and familiar.

He knows something is going on. His meaningful stares and long silences tells me he suspects _something_. When I shot Schueller he should have demanded an explanation. He should have asked me the meaning behind Schueller's words and my deadly reaction. And I was ready to give it to him, to finally burden him with the horrible truth he was aching to know. To ruin our relationship as assuredly as I ended Schueller's life. What had happened in that roadside clearing was inhumanely cruel yet he stayed beside me, letting me feel the warm reassurance of his presence despite the bloodshed I caused. That I made him commit himself. That support was the only thing that drew me away from the homicidal creature inside me who had burst free to pull that trigger. Pulling me to him, sheltering me from the onslaught of both the chill of night and freeze of a damned soul, Joseph Liebgott saved me in more ways than he knew.

In the end that is why I my voice choked in my throat. I couldn't live without him. My momentary bravery left as soon as I contemplated the outcome my words would cause. The best case scenario would be that he would leave me there and we would never speak again.

The worst would be him turning that Luger on me.

I wouldn't fight him if it came to that. I deserve it, I know. Not only because I am not worthy of happiness, but also because I am selfish. So selfish that I couldn't speak as I gathered into his body and breathed the scent of his chest, instead deciding to keep him to myself even if it is on a bed of deception.

My lips still tingle from his kiss. What we thought was a last, fraught one. One that made me want to cry with bliss, even though I knew we were going to end up on opposite sides of the afterlife.

Perhaps that is why I enjoyed it so much. Because I knew it would be our last, in this life or the next. I didn't regret my decision then. And when he told me we made it – that we were still alive – for a moment I pictured us together, the war a distant memory, content and peaceful in old age. But now, as the dampness of the ground creeps through my clothes, the truth weighs heavily on me all the more.

I should tell him. But how? When? Now, when he can shove me back across the line? Later, when his anger will be all the more lethal from the time he was kept unaware?

Or never, and let us enjoy the sweet bliss of ignorance?

There is a touch on my shoulder and the soft sound of my name. I come around, forcefully dragging myself back to the reality surrounding me. Things have gone silent, the Germans no longer shooting through the slowly decaying night. Joe is crouched next to me, brow puckered, and the other two squat if front of me with guarded curiosity coming from the shadows of their faces.

"Are you okay?" Joe asks. "You weren't hurt out there, were you?"

I slowly shake my head. I am not any more hurt now than when we started our scramble through the countryside, but tired. So, so tired. I feel like I am swimming in a pool of syrup, making my limbs feel thick and dense.

"We're moving to the rear. Can you walk?"

I struggle to my feet, caked dirt falling from my hair. With Joe's hand wrapping around my elbow to help, I crawl out of the hole. Dawn is beginning to turn the eastern sky blue and I feel numb except for Joe's warm hand on my arm.

The soldier who found us in the crater follows us out of the hole and Joe leans towards me, motioning him over.

"This is Don Malarkey," he whispers to me. "He's a good friend of mine and I've asked him to watch over you if I'm not around. If you need anything find him, okay?"

Don Malarkey. He looks towards us as he hears his name and I catch a glimpse of a few days' worth of red beard in the poor lighting. I try to memorize the name and face, but my brain feels like a vat of quicksand. I nod anyway.

Joe says something in English and Don tilts his head towards me in acknowledgement, but I can tell he is wary. Then he turns, parting the darkness as he treads towards our next destination.

As Joe guides me forward I look back, taking one last glimpse of my former countrymen across the field.

There is nothing but black and still silence.

* * *

"Joe!"

Another man pops out of his hole, approaching us as we walk. I hear a gasp of astonishment from the darkness ahead and two more appear to join the crowd that is starting to encircle us, the sound of excited voices rising.

He speaks with a lightness in his voice I haven't heard before now and we stop, now surrounded by obscured shapes of men. I blink away the fog of exhaustion as the dirty, smokey smell of them reaches my nose and my muscles involuntarily tighten nervously. Joe speaks my name and I stare as polite, cautious glances are sent my way, sometimes followed by what I assume are pleasantries and other times with nothing more than a curt gesture of acknowledgment. The noise seems to draw even more men who gather around, clearly not familiar with Joe but interested all the same. As the group swells laughter erupts at whatever turn the conversation has taken and I shift uneasily, my foreignness more uncomfortable than I ever predicted it would be as I struggle to understand what is happening.

Joe turns towards me, his expression bright even in the poor light. "I'm telling them–" he begins to translate, only to stop as another man claps him on the shoulder and more exultant, English words are traded. I don't interrupt as the joy of his homecoming sweeps him away. Even with my growing apprehension I can't help but watch him and the thankful, happy expression on his face. The men press in closer, one of them bumping against my elbow. I rip my gaze from Joe and steel myself, trying not to shrink into him as the crowd around us grows larger. Most of the men hold cigarettes and smoke clouds in my face, making me choke back a cough.

 _Cold, smooth wood of the desk under my fingers._

 _Who is your enemy?_

 _Amerika._

No, no, no, no. Squeezing my eyes shut I block out the smell of burning tobacco.

There is more than one reason why I took Joe's cigarettes.

But I'm _done_ with that. I'm free. The voice should be leaving me alone. These men are Joe's friends. Joe wouldn't let anything happen to me. I'm safe.

The draining feeling streams through my bones again and gravity pulls at me, willing me to crumple to the ground. My fingers bite into Joe's forearm but he doesn't notice, deep into some story I don't understand. The circle around us tightens and I feel lightheaded. A particularly large man chewing on an unlit cigar pushes through to shake Joe's hand. The limited amount of oxygen in the huddle shrinks with his bulk and I gulp.

Safe. I am safe. Aren't I? They know the enemy stands among them. I can see it in the glances their eyes give me as they stray from Joe's face.

Breath rushes in and out of my nose. Oh God. I might as well be wearing the red armband and a target on my chest. The voices meld into an undistinguished rushing sound that fills my head and the pain coming from my limbs intensifies, pulsing against the last shreds of consciousness keeping me standing.

 _I'm sure if the Americans get here they will love finding Goebbel's Golden Girl right at their fingertips._

Henrich's voices hisses through the commotion assaulting my ears and my heart stutters. Joe says something and another laugh shakes the group, thunderous and overpowering. I can _feel_ the suspicious stares cutting into me. No matter what Joe says they know I don't belong here. Maybe Henrich was right. I had been so obsessive over what Joe would think of me when my past came to light that I hadn't spared a thought for the rest of the Americans. They are here for blood and I would make a prime target by just being German. If they found out about … on top of…

My eyelids snap back open. Maybe Joe has led me into the lion's den. I know he doubted as much as I that we would ever make it here, let alone what to expect if we did. He couldn't stay with me the entire time. What will happen when I am without his protection? Or if he comes after me too, when he knows? Do I even have a chance when I can't understand a thing anyone is saying?

My eyes drift to the collection of weapons hanging off of them. We are surrounded now. No escape.

I feel like Schueller is back, wrapping his hands around my neck and choking the life from me. I inhale again, but only get a lungful of smoke. The world feels unsteady and my knees shake weakly.

I've made a huge mistake. I should have told him days ago. It would have been awful, but at least I wouldn't be facing down a mob of his brethren too. Now I have to stay silent. I have to lie to avoid be strung up like the criminal I am.

In some ways I guess I've just wandered from one prison to another. Now the cage is just in my mind.

I am going to have to come up with another story to explain away what Schueller told him and my response. But, God, I don't want to do that. Not to him. He deserves better than a dishonest coward whose worthless life he risked everything for.

The talking grows even louder and the English wraps incomprehensibly around me. The phantom grip around my neck tightens. Joe is taking an offered cigarette from one of the faceless soldiers who press in from all sides. _Please, no._

My shuddering mind desperately searches for a way to extract myself from this besides falling head-first into the mud.

 _Do you think he is going to let you go so easily?_

Of course not. The Americans will get me here and _he_ will get me over there. The idea that Joe and I could carry on like any other couple was an illusion fueled by my purposeful ignorance towards the impact my lies would cause. I can run away from the Nazi's, but I can't run away from my own history. I'm doomed. _Doomed_.

A hand comes down on my shoulder and I nearly buckle, instinctively withdrawing from any of them touching me. Hurting me. Anxiety bubbles up and I struggle to keep it down before it snaps the thin cord mooring me to the present.

 _Whatever they do to you is going to be a nightmare compared to me._

The hand slides down to my elbow, trying to pull me away from Joe. A new voice sounds beside me, finally saying a word I recognize.

 _Nazi._

My terror burst through, coming out in a weak cry as I try to yank my arm free. But the limb feels as heavy as concrete and the hold on me tightens.

The pathetic noise I make can't compete with the crowd. I can barely hear it in my own ears. But Joe's head snaps over as if I have screamed and even in the dark blue light of the coming sunrise I can see his eyes narrow as they take in what is happening. He says something loud and sharp and the owner of the hand answers back equally severely. My pulse pounds in my ears and everything blurs as Joe leaves my side. A shiver rattles me and the hand is ripped away with piercing, angry words. The force of it throws me off balance and I stagger, spinning in the dark sea of the faceless soldiers. Joe. Where did Joe go? I feel like I am falling, the cold air moving over my skin and my feet sliding across the ground. Another pair of hands grabs me and I want to cry out again, but a voice is close to my ear talking in soft, calming tones. Then the hands lower me down until I realize I _had_ actually been falling. With the help of the hands I sit heavily on the ground and my last of my energy draws from me, sinking into the cold, hard earth.

My eyelids droop heavily but I force them open. A figure is beside me, keeping me sitting upright. It isn't Joe.

 _Joe._

"I'm here," I jerk my head up at the familiar deep voice. But I can't see anything.

Pain pounds through me, impatient to finally be noticed.

A click. A glaring white light, pointed at me.

The man beside me. Red beard. Don. He's safe. Right?

I don't know.

A collection of growing murmurs. What sounds like a low oath from Don. I can't stay awake any longer. I need Joe.

Spilling forward. Don't have the strength anymore. Don catching me again. My chin smacks against my chest. White light. Red, bloody clothes. Schueller's blood. My blood. _Nazi_. I'm as dead as him.

Shouting. Just a single word. _Medic_. Another man, appearing from the crowd. Red cross. Reaching for me. _No_.

"Caroline." Joe's voice. So far away. "Doc Roe is here to help. There is a lot of dried blood and we can't see much. Where did Schueller hurt you? Where is the pain?"

Everywhere. Mouth won't move. _Joe_.

Fingers on my face. Lifting my chin up. Brown eyes. He's here.

Blackness.

* * *

 _"_ _Where did you come from?"_

 _Her breath rattles in her chest. "Munich."_

 _There is creak somewhere in the house and I still, waiting for the sign that someone is coming. Mother has been gone all day and Father is asleep. "Do you think your parents are going to come up here?"_

 _"Not until after dark. They can't come out of the basement when the sun is up."_

 _Just like the others._

 _I nod. "I'm not allowed to tell anyone about you."_

 _She licks her cracked lips and I shift, the hard floor biting into my bottom. The sheets flutter and she closes her eyes for a moment. I watch her._

 _"Who are you hiding from?"_

 _Her eyes, dark and dim, slowly open again. "The men in the brown uniforms."_

 _Brown uniforms. He has a brown uniform. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek._

 _She coughs, suddenly and violently. Red splatters on the white sheets._

 _I jump to my feet. "Should I go get somebody?"_

 _"No," she wheezes. "I don't think there is anything anyone can do."_

 _There is a cup of water on the nightstand. Her fingers, icy and stiff, brush mine as I give it to her. She drinks greedily and when she is done her voice is stronger. "Just stay with me, please. I don't want to be alone."_

 _She settles back on the pillow and I bite my fingernails._

 _"I don't think you're getting better."_

 _"I'm not."_

 _"You should go to the doctor."_

 _"I told you - Momma says we can't."_

 _"What would the men do to you if they found you?"_

 _She looks at me, her young face lined with weariness. "I don't know. Momma says we would get sent to a work camp. My friend Helen was sent to one. I told her to write me, but she never did. I think she is dead."_

 _I jolt. "Dead?" I whisper. "Why do you think that?"_

 _Tears shimmer in her eyes. "When I got sick I slept a lot. We were already traveling by then. One time I woke up and Momma and Papa didn't know. I heard them talking. They said…" She gulps in air. "They said that anyone who gets sent to those places dies."_

 _I blink in confusion. "But-but how? Why?"_

 _"I don't know. Because we are Jews. That's what they said."_

 _She closes her eyes again. My teacher in school says that Jews were evil, but Anne is nice. Why would Mother and Father let her into our house if she was bad? Why would the men in brown want to kill her friend?_

 _Her hand grabs mine, her grip weak and clammy. She is looking at me, her eyes frightened but resigned._

 _"I don't want to die. Please don't leave me."_

 _I squeeze her limp and cold fingers. "I won't."_

* * *

 _He is different. We walk home side by side as always, but everything feels different. He wears his uniform every day now._

 _We pass by the newspaper stand as we turn onto our street. Bold, black headlines scream about Kristallnacht._

 _"You should have been there," he tells me, slowing to look at them. "It was glorious. We showed them who was in charge, for damn sure."_

 _I keep walking. "Mother was afraid I'd get hurt. I could see the fires from my window."_

 _"I'm sure there are going to be others. I'll take you next time."_

 _The air is stingingly cold and I burrow into my scarf, not answering. Suddenly I'm yanked to a stop. His hand grips my shoulder._

 _"You are awfully quiet. You don't feel sorry for them, do you?"_

 _My heartbeat steadily quickens. "Of course not," I lie. I think of Anne._

 _"Because they deserve it. They can't go on ruining our country any longer."_

 _His icy blue gaze pierces through me and I become aware of us standing in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, people pushing against us from either side._

 _"We're in the way. Come on, I need to get home." I go to keep walking but his hold on me doesn't loosen. My breath catches as he keeps staring at me._

 _"Caroline."_

 _"What?" I answer, starting to get irritated._

 _"They deserve it, don't they?"_

 _The red band on his bicep is blinding in the sun._

 _"Yes. Yes, they do. Okay?" Things_ have _changed. He has never looked at me like this before. He has never touched me before._

 _His hand falls and I take off through the mass of people. He stays by my side. His low voice reaches me over the din. "Good."_

 _I never thought I would be so happy to see my door. I rush up the steps and fumble for my key. I doubt Mother is going to be home. She hardly is anymore._

 _He is still there, crowding me on the stoop._

 _"You can't come in," I snap, my fingers finally closing around the key in my pocket. He grabs my wrist as I go for the lock._

 _"Hang on for a second. I need to talk to you."_

 _Words to tell him where to get off are on the tip on my tongue, but that armband catches my eye again. I thought he was my friend. Could he be one of the Brownshirts who want to kill Anne? He can't know about her._

 _I stay silent._

 _"You need to come to the next rally."_

 _"Why?"_

 _He sighs with aggravation. "Because people are talking. You and your parents are never seen at any of the events. There are starting to be questions about your dedication to the cause."_

 _My jaw tics. "Why should I care what about a bunch of busybodies have to say about me? I never have before."_

 _"This is different, Caroline. I am telling you this as a friend, nothing more. Anything out of the ordinary is cause for suspicion. It doesn't help that no one is allowed inside your house. What are you hiding?"_

 _"Nothing." I want to get inside, away from him. I wrench my arm back and shove the key into the lock._

 _"Then let me in. I can tell them that nothing is wrong."_

 _The door opens just enough for me to slip through. I push past him, escaping into the quiet solitude of the foyer._

 _"No." I slam the door shut, locking it once more. My heart pounds and in the darkness I rest my forehead on the rough wood._

 _"You need to change your tune, Caroline," his muffled voice warns through the door. I jerk back with a gasp. "Or things will get worse than you ever imagined. For you and your family."_

* * *

 _She looks bad. She can't raise her head from the pillow._

 _The house is quiet and dark. Her parents have come and gone, safely locked back in the basement. Everyone else is asleep. My watch tells me it's after midnight. I've crept to her room, like every night. I won't leave her alone, just like I promised._

 _"I want to feel pretty."_

 _"What?"_

 _She swallows, clearly in pain. "I'm dying. This is my last chance. Can you make me look pretty, like the girls in the magazines?"_

 _My mouth opens and closes as I stare at her. "Like a movie star or something?"_

 _She gives me a weak smile. "Yes. Can you do that?"_

 _I smile back, an idea forming in my head. "Give me a minute."_

 _My parent's bedroom is at the end of the hall. I walk on my toes, silently creeping up to it and slowly turning the knob. It swings open noiselessly, revealing the lumps of their bodies under the covers. Slinking through the shadows I sneak over to my mother's dressing table._

 _What would a movie star wear? Rogue, of course. And lipstick. Face powder. There is a dim glitter in the light from the window. A broach. Movie stars always have jewels._

 _Her eyes pop back open as I tiptoe back into the room, carefully shutting the door behind me. With a giggle I rush over to the bed, dumping my haul on the coverlet. She lets out a happy gasp._

 _"I'm going to look like Marlene Dietrich!"_

 _I uncap the lipstick. "Foor sure, dahling." My accent is ridiculous and she lets out a laugh before clapping a hand over her mouth._

 _We wait, but nothing stirs. Then we grin._

 _The rogue pushes color back into her pale cheeks and the lipstick smooths over her gray lips. A hacking fit erupts and smears the red color down her chin. I clean it off with my handkerchief._

 _Digging though my own bureau I find my comb and run it through the loose curls I can reach with her laying on the pillow. The broach is clipped to the collar of her nightgown and she runs a trembling hand over it._

 _"You're beautiful," I tell her._

 _"Do you have a mirror?"_

 _I do. I hand it to her and help prop her up so her face catches the light from the streetlamp coming through the window._

 _"I've never worn makeup before," she says softly as she peers at her reflection. She gives me a wry glance. "I look human again. Do you think I could have been in the movies too?"_

 _"Marlene Dietrich would be jealous."_

 _She goes to laugh again when she suddenly stops, looking towards the window._

 _I follow her gaze. A figure is in the tree growing in our garden. Brown uniform. Red armband. So close I can see his blue eyes._

 _My face goes slack with surprise. How long has been out there? How much has he seen? Just us? Her parents too?_

 _Alarm burns through my thoughts._

 _He saw enough. His face is hard. Furious._

 _"Who is that?" Anne's whisper is choked. Fear permeates the air between us._

 _He jumps down, taking off in a run._

 _In the stunned silence I distantly hear my answer._

 _"Henrich. His name is Henrich."_

* * *

" _Joe!"_

I shoot upwards, groping blindly. The soldiers. Americans. Henrich. Anne.

God, _Anne_.

Hands are grabbing at me. I fight them off. Where is Joe? _I need Joe_.

"Caroline!" His voice snaps through my thoughts, penetrating the blackness.

My eyes fly open.

No Henrich. No horde of faceless men.

Joe stares at me. We're in a bedroom. Alone.

My ribs twinge with every rushed breath. Bedroom? "What… where – "

"It's okay," he soothes. "You're safe."

He has changed. His clothes are clean. How long have I been out? Where am I?

I look down. I'm still in my soiled skirt and blouse. Joe lowers himself to sit on the bed next to where I am laying. A steaming basin is on the nightstand next to him. He eyes my dirty apparel too.

"There aren't any women around and I didn't… well, I figured I'd see if you wanted help to change your clothes when you woke up."

"Wh-where am I?" My heart is still racing.

"The command post, which for the moment is this farmhouse. It's the only place with both privacy and a roof, but it's not bad. Has all four walls and everything, so I'd call it an improvement."

His soft humor finally slows my frantic breathing and I lean back against the pillow, swallowing. "Your headquarters? I'm allowed to be here?"

He gives a small frown. "For the time being. I told them waking up in the aid station would give you a heart attack, so they agreed to let you gain your bearings here for now."

 _For now._ The implication rings in the air. I can't stay here, even if I'm not arrested.

 _I have to tell him._

I press my eyes closed. "What happened after I passed out?"

He lets out a huff. "You mean, after that fucker put his hands on you?"

 _Nazi._

I grimace.

"He was a fucking replacement. Only been in the unit for a few weeks. Apparently he thought Eisenhower personally tasked him with defeating Germany single handedly and he decided to start with you. You won't be bothered by him again."

That soldier couldn't have been alone in his thinking. "What about the others?"

Joe is toying with a cigarette in his fingers. I watch it move and he notices. He shoves it back into his pocket.

"You are safe here. Even if they agreed with that asshole I'm sure they fucking changed their minds when Bull lit you up with that flashlight. No offense, sweetheart, but Schueller and Henrich did a number on your face. You look like you've been in a boxing match."

I gingerly touch my swollen cheeks and nose.

"I told everyone how you got them and what you've done for me. You got the shit beat out of you to make sure I made it back alive." His long fingers trail over the splint. "You aren't going to have any more problems, trust me."

Tears climb up the back of my throat. It is all lies. I cover his hand with my own. "Joe – "

He shushes me. "Don't get upset, Caroline. We made it. Everything is going to be okay."

I struggle to keep my face neutral. He doesn't understand. "I have to –"

He reaches for the washbasin. "I'm going to get some of this blood off of you and then you can change. We will talk then about what to do next. You'll feel better."

My hand clenches the sheet in frustration. "Listen – "

"Caroline." The rag he is holding falls to his lap. His jaw tightens and his eyes are dark with emotion as he looks at me. "Please. Just let me do this."

The words die in my throat. Here, alone in the safety of this house, his hard shell is cracking. We had narrowly escaped arrest. We had dashed through the frozen woods. We had been shot at, chased, and bombed. He had killed two men. I had killed one. I had fainted. He hadn't blinked.

But as he sits before me his knuckles are white as he grips the rag and although his gaze upon me is gentle I feel the tense undercurrent running through him, making him walk the edge of the mountain of pressure this past week had dumped on him. Now, before he tackles the next challenge, the moment is quiet and I'm his patient.

I fall back into the pillow, nodding to him. He swallows, his shoulders dropping, and begins to wash the dried, flaking blood from my face. The cloth is warm. My eyes sink closed, relaxing under his ministrations. I _will_ tell him. Later.

"How are you feeling?" he inquires softly.

"Like I was beaten up, got into a car accident, then ran my legs off in subzero temperatures." My lips pull into a smile and I hear a chuckle from him. The rag moves to my neck, tracing the finger shaped bruises there. "How is your side?"

"It's fine. Our medic, Doc Roe, said you did a good job."

"Not bad for a just reading a textbook, huh?"

There is a splattering of water as he wrings the rag out in the basin. "You're a natural, darlin'. I'm going to get fresh water. I'll be right back."

I hear him leave and slowly open my eyes in the stillness of the room. It is small and simply furnished, with anything of value long since stripped away. Still, I can tell the wallpaper adorning the walls is good quality and the bed I am laying on is comfortable. Whoever lived here was better off than I was.

A mirror is hung on the opposite side of the room, next to a window letting in the afternoon sun. I hadn't seen my face in days, not since Henrich's men destroyed my things.

I throw back the covers and find my feet bare. Who had removed my shoes? Joe?

For some reason the picture of him tending to me, unconscious and unaware, makes my heart thump inside my chest.

My body aches as I move to stand and I feel every second of the last few days in my muscles as I straighten. For a second the room spins and I find myself feeling for the bedpost to keep vertical. Slowly the room rights itself again and when the swimming in my head ebbs I cautiously make my way to the window.

The sun is bright and I squint. The yard below is a muddy collection of dark green vehicles, each with a prominent white star painted on the side. Men mill about, smoking and talking. They are dressed like Joe, with the eagle patch on their shoulders.

My fingernails dig into the wood of the sill as I sway. Maybe if I am careful I can make Joe understand my history in a way that wouldn't make him angry. Maybe I could try for pity instead. Surely, knowing me now, he would take everything with a grain of salt. That just because I had done evil things doesn't mean I am an evil person.

 _Sure, tell yourself that._

Schueller's face, pulled into a look of horror at the end of the Luger, flashes across my memory.

I guide myself over to the mirror. It is time to see the damage he had inflicted.

As the features of my face slowly come into focus my stomach cramps uncomfortably.

 _What had they done to me?_

Both eyes are blackened and swollen. The white of my right is stained red with a burst vessel and I push down my nausea as I look at it. My cheekbones are hidden under ugly red and blue bruises, with the one Henrich gave me fading to a green and yellow. My nose is puffy and scabbed. It might be crooked when the swelling heals. A goose egg on my temple sticks out awkwardly.

I look horrible. No wonder those men gasped.

Lifting my chin up, I see the outline of Schueller's hands on the column of my throat.

Before I know it I see tears well up and spill across my disfigured face. God, how can Joe even look at me?

The door opens behind me and I frantically wipe them away before turning around.

His eyes are on me as he carefully closes the door behind him and places the bowl back on the stand.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice laced with worry.

I can only huff, drawn back to the mirror.

"Oh," he breathes with realization. "You shouldn't have gotten out of bed."

"I didn't think it was this bad," I choke. I feel the weight again, wrapping around my neck. I gulp in air, riveted to what stares back at me.

"Hey, now." He is behind me, pulling me away from the mirror. "Bruises always look the worst the day after you get them. I'm sure they will start healing tomorrow and you'll be as good as new before you know it."

I run my fingers over the swollen lumps. "Why did they have to _do_ this to me?" My voice is an octave higher and I breathe faster. He leads me back to the bed and makes sit.

"We've established that they are assholes, right? It's going to be okay. You're still beautiful to me."

I scoff, more tears filling my eyes. "Don't give me a bunch of empty flattery, Joe. Look at me!"

He crouches until his face is level with mine, his eyes seeking out my own. He is close, so close I can feel his breath brush over my skin and his scent fills my nose. His hands rest lightly on my knees.

"I am," he replies seriously. "I am looking right at you, Caroline, and you're the goddamn best thing I've seen in my life."

For a moment I am wordless, staring at his handsome face.

He leans closer, not more than a few millimeters, but heat shoots through me, centering on where his hands touch my legs. It surprises me and suck in a breath. My mouth goes dry and I lick my lips. His gaze flickers down to the movement and his fingertips press into my thighs. My heart begins to hammer, but for once it isn't out of panic or fear. No, it is something else entirely.

He leans achingly closer, our lips a breath apart. His stare holds my own and a shiver tingles through my core. In that moment I forget about my injuries. I forget about my past. I forget about the war still raging outside. Instead I focus on his beautiful eyes that unflinchingly connect with my own and tell me of sweet, heated thoughts that make warmth pool through my insides.

His nose brushes against mine, so lightly I barely feel it. But he might as well have sent a bolt of electricity through me that makes every hair stand on end. His jaw works and I know he feels it too.

"Joe." I exhale his name into the sliver of air still between us and his eyes darken. It's all he needs. He closes the space and his lips are on mine.

A groan involuntary emerges from my throat and my good hand winds in his hair, pulling him into me. He responds in kind and his hands rise higher, gripping my legs through my skirt.

He tastes sweet and smoky, masculine and delicious. My body responds on its own accord, arching into him in a move I didn't know I possessed. Certainly never one I did to Henrich. Joe falls to his knees, one of his hands pressing into my back to tug my chest flush with his own. His hips fit between my legs, making my skirt ride higher. His hand takes advantage of this and runs up my thigh, leaving a trail of fire even through my stocking.

I want him. I _need_ him.

When I feel his tongue run along my lip my eyes flutter closed and I part my mouth, allowing him entry. His arm hugs me tighter him, pushing me legs further apart and my skirt slips precariously high.

I can't find the will to care about my modesty. I think of the times we have danced along this line, with the worries of the war and being discovered quenching the fires just as quickly as they ignited. But now, surrounded by the reassuring peace of safety, there is nothing to stop us and I relish every inch my clothing reveals.

The hand on my thigh moves to my hair, tangling itself in the strands and pressing my mouth even deeper into his. Hot, pulsing desire winds through my abdomen and I tear my lips away at the intensity of it, gasping for air. He doesn't pause and I feel his tongue slide down my neck.

Another moan escapes me and his hand drifts down to clench at my bottom. The bar of his arm across my back tightens and then I'm being lifted as he stands, holding me to him. I wrap my hand around his neck as he turns, sitting on the bed and settling me in his lap. Then his mouth is back on mine, burning and demanding. I respond with equal ferocity and before I can help myself my teeth catch his bottom lip in a forward move that feels so, so right.

This is nothing like what being with Henrich was like. Even when I was willing, it was all fumbling and uncomfortable, his kisses wet and clumsy.

Not _this_.

His chest rumbles in response and my blouse is being pulled free from my skirt. Then the calloused skin of his hands is skimming up my back to the dirty bandages covering my stitches. I react instinctively, pressing against his lap and making him inhale sharply. My skirt is almost up to my waist now, leaving just my slip and stockings covering me. Distantly I cringe at the thought of what lays beneath the black nylon but he doesn't make a move to remove them, only running his fingers over them as he continues his luscious exploration of my body.

I tug at his shirt and he yanks it off. I feel the heat of his skin through my blouse and the cool metal of his dog tags as they hang between us. My fingertips glide over him, investigating every dip and swell of muscle. His hands return to my bottom, dragging me harder against him. My hips grind downwards and he let outs a measured breath of air onto my throat.

He pulls away then, leaning back slightly. I teeter as I balance on him, sweltering with every square inch of my skin. Just as I register his movement he is lifting my blouse over my head, carefully negotiating it across my face.

I'm left in my chemise. His eyes find mine again, searching. He pauses, letting the sounds of our heavy panting fill the room. I instantly miss his mouth on mine.

"Caroline," he forces out, his voice gruff and strained. "You have no idea how much I want to do this. But I know what Hen-." He stops, biting back that name. "I know your past isn't the greatest. I need you to tell me you want this, honey."

I look down at him, struggling to find my voice. My body cries out for him but he sits back, waiting for me to respond. His jaw is tight and I know this is as painful for him as for me.

"Y-yes," I manage to get out.

He swallows, raising an eyebrow, and I realize my weak response came across as doubt. "You sure?"

I am going to go crazy if I don't have him _now_ and do the first thing that comes across my mind to convince him.

With my good hand I grab to edge of my chemise and rip it over my head.

He freezes, eyes falling to my bare chest. I wait for him to rise back up to me but he waits, looking at me with a strange expression on his face.

Brow furrowing, I look down.

A massive black bruise stretches across my breastbone and down to my navel, horrible and fierce.

The steering wheel. It smacked me hard in the chest when we crashed.

I look at Joe again, my heart in my throat. To my dismay, want is not longer painted on his face. No, instead it is...disgust. I feel myself deflate.

Great. Just…just _great_. My ugliness has gotten to him.

Self-consciousness floods through me, dowsing the fire. Looking away, I scramble off of him, stumbling until I find the bedpost again. My legs feel like jelly.

"Caroline…" he is saying. I focus on yanking my skirt back down while trying to cover myself with the splint. Where the hell did my chemise fly off to? I distractedly hear him climb off the bed. A warm arm encircles my waist but I pull away. I need to get clothes on. I need to get covered. _Where_ is that chemise? Screw it. I grab my blouse.

His hand is on my arm, stopping me. "Please, just let me explain –"

I jerk my arm away and pull my shirt over my head. The collar catches on my face and I yelp with pain.

"Stop this and talk to me. You are just going to hurt –"

There is a pounding at the door. I jump and shove my arms through the sleeves.

"Goddammit," Joe hisses, still shirtless. "Caroline, listen. It's not – "

More pounding and a voice yelling through the door. Joe yells something back in English and grabs his shirt. I press my lips together, staring at the floor. At least this means he'll leave and I can be miserable in peace.

"Shit," Joe curses again. "Look, we are going to talk about this, okay? It's not what you think. But apparently my unit is being ordered to go investigate some fucking thing out in the woods so I have to leave. But this isn't over, understand?"

I don't reply, waiting for him to go.

He sighs. "There is something else. I can't leave you alone. Part of the deal for allowing you to stay here is that you can't be unchaperoned."

My head snaps up. "What? What do they think I am going to do?"

He shrugs his shoulders, exasperation apparent in every line of his face. "I don't know. But I have to follow orders. I'll take you to the aid station. Someone will watch you there."

My fingernails dig into the palm of my hand but I don't argue. The door pounds again and with an irritated growl Joe rips it open, making it creak on its hinges. The soldier named Don stands on the other side, seemingly unperturbed by Joe's attitude. Some more English is exchanged and Don nods kindly towards me before disappearing down the hall.

Joe's shoulders slump in defeat and he rubs his eyes. "Come on, we need to get moving."

Clenching my teeth, I shove my feet into my shoes and silently follow him out the room and down the hall to a set of stairs. At the bottom is an entry way filled with more soldiers moving about. Despite my anger at Joe I move closer to him, warily watching the men who watch me interestedly back. Joe senses this and I feel irritating relief when his hand moves to the small of my back to guide me forward. Embarrassment and humiliation still sting in my veins and I shouldn't want him to be touching me, but I stiffly allow him to lead me out into the yard.

A small village has sprung up around the farmhouse, turning the fields into a grid of muddy roads and tents. Joe navigates us through a dizzying number of turns and everything becomes an army green blur. I feel the stares on me but no one approaches us as we trudge towards our destination.

When I see the red cross a repulsive feeling rises in my gut. The last time I was in one of these it was a nightmare of screaming, dying men. My steps falter and Joe looks down at me before wordlessly tugging me onward.

I find myself holding my breath as we walk through the flap, bracing myself for the sight welcoming us. I see a row of cots set up in a similar fashion as the German tent, but with overwhelming relief I realize most are empty. A few men are scattered about, but most are conscious and talking. There is no cries of pain. No puddles of blood.

Joe leads me over to a cot and calls out in English. A man with a white armband approaches and as they converse I settle myself on the cot. When I look up I see Joe hand him several packs of cigarettes. The indignity of being babysat is a somewhat minor offense, I suppose. Aren't I afraid if they find out who I am? They _should_ be cautious.

"Caroline," Joe catches my attention and I coolly look at him. His lips flatten in aggravation. "This medic is Spina. He's going to keep you company until I get back."

I nod. Spina says something and Joe turns back to me. "He's going to get you some ice for the bruises."

I purse my lips at the mention of my wounds. Joe sighs again.

"Just stay put, okay? Don't wander off or we'll both get in trouble."

My shoes are falling apart. I stare at the torn soles, waiting for him to leave. He hesitates above me and a second later his palm is gently cupping my bruised cheek, raising my face to his.

His eyes are sad and frustrated. "You are beautiful, Caroline. Please believe me."

He plea is achingly similar to one he gave that dreadful afternoon he chased me up that hill. Clenching my jaw, I pull my face away, blinking back my tears.

For a moment longer he lingers next to me, clearly wanted to say something else, but eventually I feel him move away.

When I look up again he is gone.

Spina comes back with the ice and with a grateful nod to him I press it against my face. For a moment I wonder what his reaction would be if I opened the bag and poured it down my shirt and a faint smile cracks across my face. Spina takes this as a sign the ice is a relief and grins before pointing at his canteen. Do I want water?

" _Nein._ " I shake my head. He responds with something I don't understand and falls silent.

We sit there as time stretches on, the language barrier quickly ending any attempt at polite conversation. The ice melts in my hands and Spina replaces it. A few men wander in and Spina dispatches them with a handful of medication or a small bandage. As the sun lowers in the sky and the second bag melts I feel my anger slowly draining away, replaced with growing guilt. His reaction was natural, after all. It was an ugly bruise, one he clearly wasn't expecting. He had done so much for me. Was it right to punish him for this small mistake?

I picture the burning hunger in his eyes. That wasn't fake.

I swallow, letting my gaze fall to my lap. Am I wrong?

Suddenly I miss him. I want him to come back, to talk to me. I want to set things right.

But as the shadows lengthen he doesn't appear. I try to ask Spina what is going on, but a blank stare meets my words and nonsensical gestures. Joe said something was found in the woods. What could it be? Is he in danger?

Then, just as the sun is about to dip behind the trees, I hear trucks approaching. I leap to my feet and move to the entrance of the tent. One of the trucks stops before me and the tailgate falls to let a sea of men jump to the ground. I don't see Joe as I peer at the faces. They have a peculiar look to them, though. A strange mix of repulsion and illness. I stare at them as they pass by.

Something rings distantly in my mind. A warning.

Another truck. More men. No Joe. These walk by me as well and a smell hits my nose. A smell that clings to their clothing, thick and poisonous. A smell I know.

Bile shoot up the back of my throat. I cough and double over. The bag of ice falls to the ground. _No_.

 _My unit is being ordered to go investigate some fucking thing out in the woods._

It can't be. We aren't close enough to it.

Another truck comes to a stop, breaks squealing. I stare at the ground willing it be any other answer. Anything else in those woods.

The stares are on me again. But they are no longer curious. No, fear wraps around me as their shock and revulsion sink into me.

And one stare, more powerful than the others, leveled on me.

 _He's here._

I slowly rise up, disbelief stopping me from turning towards that pounding glare. From meeting the fate I had been worried about from the very beginning. I feel like I am going to break apart. To shatter into a million pieces. I beg the earth to open up under me, to take me away for the agony that is about to happen.

But it doesn't. I stay whole, rooted to my spot and trying to avoid a destiny that I was condemned to meet since that night six years ago.

 _Joe._

God, it's over.

I slowly turn. He stands a distance away, unblinkingly watching me. His face is a pale and severe mask. It frightens me more than any anger ever could.

As I take him in coldness rises up within me, consuming the tender warmth that ignited that night in my cellar. When told me he cared about me. That expiring moment when I thought I could be happy. I was wrong. I'm right back where I started. And he's become collateral damage. But isn't that what I do? Ruin lives?

As I look to him and accept my downfall I hear the men whispering around me. There is one word I understand. One word that haunts me.

 _Kaufering._


	29. Chapter 28

**Happy Thursday! Sorry for the longer time between the chapters again, but I really wanted to do a good job with this one. I debated skipping it entirely and moving on to the aftermath, but I think what happens below is important to understand what Joe ends up doing. In the end, this was probably one of the hardest chapters to write so far and I hope I paid proper due to what happened in both the series and in real life. Please review and let me know any feedback!**

 **Guest - Thanks for the review :)**

 **Maya - I appreciate the compliment! I know this story is dark and very AU, and I love that you are enjoying it!**

* * *

Joe thought he could handle anything the war threw at him.

It had been ten months since he jumped into France. Merely ten months he had spent on this continent. Less than a third of his entire stint in the army. But that time loomed over anything else he had ever done – over Sobel, over his rough years as a youth, over the pain of his mother's death. Nothing else could compete with the terrible bloodshed these ten months so readily provided. But he was still here. Still functioning.

It damaged him. It made him into a killer he sometimes didn't recognize. Emptiness rose within him, absorbing the horrors he came across – and the horrors he dispensed himself – into black nothingness where they could do no harm. Where he wouldn't have to think about them.

And he stayed whole. Not everyone he fought with could say that.

He didn't worry about whether the barrenness in his heart was permanent or not. His concern wasn't that this reaction would someday bite him in the ass and leave him crippled inside. He'd convinced himself that surviving wasn't in the cards for him and that was all there was to it. So he went through the motions as his bullets killed Germans and German bullets killed his friends.

At least until Caroline.

So he thought.

With her he entertained the idea that he would survive, that he would be happy. That what happened here will eventually become a memory, fuzzy through the filter of the many favorable memories since. If the emptiness kept him from falling apart, then Caroline made him remember to be human.

He had been so goddamn gullible.

The secrets Caroline held. The depth of the Nazi's depravity. The risk of letting his guard down. So gullible about everything.

He couldn't get that smell out of his nose. It stuck to him, attaching itself to his skin to linger for what he feared was the rest of his fucking life.

The decay from the bodies, withered and festering in the sun. The smoke from those that were dispatched in flames. The unwashed, diseased air coming from the men who were still alive. Luckily or unluckily. He hadn't decided yet.

The bony, desperate face of the man who's horrific words he translated appeared in his mind again. For the millionth time this afternoon. The man that made him question everything.

His mouth still burned from the acid his stomach heaved up.

He had been so fucking cocky. So sure that he had this in the bag. Germany was falling apart, he had escaped, Caroline was by his side even if she was angry. That was all a fucking stupid misunderstanding anyway. The bruise branded on her chest had blindsided him, and for a moment he lost his handle on the deeply rooted hatred of the man who did that to her. Whatever he thought about that wretched excuse for a human emerged unknowingly on his face and she took it the wrong way.

Not that it mattered now.

When he joined Malarkey in that truck he considered himself to be on the downward slope of the misery this damn place had brought him. That the end of the tunnel was approaching and he was going to emerge in one piece. He figured they would go out into the woods, poke around, shoot the shit, then come back. Just like all the other wild goose chases such rumors caused. He had been fucking dumb.

His first clue was the shade of Perconte's face as he sat across from them, sucking on a cigarette as though his lungs needed the smoke more than air. Malarkey leaned forward, trying to garner out of him an idea of what they were heading into. The best he got was a shrug and the agitated muttering of "I don't know" over and over. Had it been anyone else Joe would have brushed it off with a derisive _nervous in the service_. But Perco was a Toccoa man. If something was fucking him up then whatever waited for them out in the woods made disquiet twist in his gut.

He wasn't wrong.

His second warning was the smell winding through the woods as they bounced along. Even though they hadn't reached their destination it surrounded them, foretelling of the horror they were about to discover. Malarkey shifted uncomfortably. Perco squeezed his eyes shut. It reminded him of the hospital. He had to wait for hours to get his neck stitched up, sitting on a cot amidst all the fucking wounded Germans his unit had annihilated at the crossroads. The smell then was harsh and unpleasant – full of blood, pain, and terror.

Yes, it reminded him of the hospital, but in a way a papercut reminded him of the chunk taken out of his neck. It was a weak association made because he couldn't think of any other way to describe it. The terribleness of it blew any other comparison out of the water.

Then the trees gave way and the bright sunlight burst upon them, illuminating the last thing he expected.

Barbed wire. Huts. Guard posts. It looked like some sort of prison.

For a moment he was confused. Why was there a prison out in the middle of nowhere? Who was inside? Why was this making Perconte look like he wanted to hurl?

Then he jumped out of the truck. Then he realized where that smell was coming from. Then he saw the prisoners, if they could be called that. If they could even be called human. They shuffled towards the locked gate, walking as if their knees bent their legs would simply give out underneath them. Tattered clothing draped over their gray forms, barely hiding the bones sticking out from under their thin, dirty skin. His feet planted in the dirt as he stared, his brain urgently trying to make some sort of sense of the scene confronting him.

He thought he had seen everything. He thought he knew misery. But it dawned on him as he stood there that he didn't know a damn thing and he didn't move as Winters ordered the gate opened.

It was almost a relief when he was told to post by the trucks and watch the rear. He didn't want to fucking go in there. He wasn't ashamed to admit it.

The stench was overpowering. More than one person was bent forward, either swallowing back the contents of their stomach or letting it splatter in the dust.

As he took up position his eyes were unsurprisingly drawn back to the prison. A body, skeletal and rotting, lay tangled in the barbed wire. One hand was stretched forward, still grasping at freedom even in death. He whipped his head back towards the woods.

Malarkey hung back with him and offered a cigarette, which he gratefully took. All of his were traded to Spina. That thought automatically led to Caroline and he remembered now how at the time he had distracted himself by thinking about her.

So _fucking_ naïve.

In perspective it had taken him too long to put everything together. He had been so _blinded_ by whatever spell she put on him. As he had stood there, smoking and listening to the wretched groans coming from behind him, a little shadow of doubt began worming through his brain. The prison was huge. The smell was overpowering. The village wasn't far away.

Had she known about this?

Maybe she did, he admitted to himself. So what? Who knows why these people were here? What obligation did she have to tell him? She probably didn't know how bad it was.

 _Ha_. He wanted to slap himself now.

When he was ordered to report to Winters for translating he groaned internally because he didn't want to enter that mass of filthy, unfortunate men. If he had known what was really going to happen he would have appreciated that those poor souls were only part of the awfulness that was about to befall him. He would have savored the last moments when he thought the war hadn't thrown him off that psychological cliff like it had so many others.

He would have realized how wonderful obliviousness really was.

As he stepped through the threshold he couldn't avoid the atrociousness of everything before him. Low, squat huts hugged the ground, their doors flung open to allow more hollowed, emaciated men to crawl out. Some had been recently burned, leaving smoking, blackened ash across the dirt and gravel. Before he forced himself to look away and find Winters he recognized human forms among the charred remains.

Winters was surrounded by the other officers, focusing on one man wearing striped, dirty clothes that looked like pajamas. He was thin like the others and held his head with one hand as though it pained him, but he was speaking in rapid German.

Joe's boots crunched heavily as he crossed the gravel to them. If he could go back in time now he would stop himself. He would pause, giving himself a moment to brace against what was about to happen. How everything he believed in and his new, tender ideas about what love was were about to be mercilessly and meticulously crushed.

Winters was ready for him and he barely reached the group before the questioning started.

"Are there soldiers here?"

"The guards left this morning," the prisoner answered, speaking faster, seemingly unable to control the torrent of words and pain coming forth now that he saw someone understood. His eyes, tormented by things Joe could only assume, darted around the camp in a manner Joe knew was learned. The anxiety of waiting, of knowing the next round of violence was coming but not being able to do anything about it, made a man wary. Sympathy tugged at him.

"Slow down. Please, slow down."

There was a pause as the man gathered himself. Then he spoke, slowly and deliberately. Joe translated word for word, each new and terrible fact in short, painful sentences that he found harder and harder to spit out as the man revealed what had happened.

"They burned some of the huts first. With the prisoners still in them. Alive."

"Jesus Christ," he heard Nixon mutter.

"Some of the prisoners tried to stop them. Some of them were killed. They didn't have enough ammo for all of the prisoners so…" The man pointed to a row of bodies by the fence. "They killed as many as they could. Before they left the camp. They locked the gates behind them and headed south." Joe swallowed. What the fuck had happened here?

"Someone in town must have told them we were coming," Nixon said, disbelief still on his face as he looked to the south.

"Yeah, I think so," he found himself agreeing. He had heard about this town – Landsberg – but had only seen it as they passed through on the truck. He could only assume it was filled with fucking Nazis. Who else would let this happen in their own backyard?

He thought of Caroline. The shadow of worry loomed larger.

"Will you ask him… what kind of camp this is? What…why are they here?" Winter's voice was soft and strained.

The man was fighting tears now, his thin frame shaking.

"Why are you here?"

The skeletal face drew into a frown _. "_ Why are we here? It's a work camp for _unerwünschte_."

Another term he hadn't heard before. Some sort of slang again. The unwanted?

He was right, in a way. In a _fucking_ way.

"Criminals?" Nixon asked.

Joe watched the man's chin quiver. He had lowered his hand now, revealing some sort of patch under his lapel. A pit of coldness began growing in Joe's stomach.

"I don't think criminals, sir," he said before switching back to German.

"Are you criminals?"

The man's eyes grew wide. "Criminals? No. Artists, musicians, tailors and clerks, farmers…normal people."

Why would they –

 _"Juden…."_

His attention snapped back to focus on the pained gaze leveled on him.

 _"…_ _Juden…."_

The man's voice began to break and for a moment Joe wasn't sure if he heard right. Didn't want to believe what he was being told. His nostrils flared, taking in another deep breath of the foul air that he no longer noticed. Winters' eyes were on him, patiently waiting for the English translation.

He could see the patch clearly now. The Star of David. His mouth went dry and he looked again at the skinny, suffering people around him.

 _Jews._

* * *

The Star charm on his chain rested against his chest as the crippled forms of the men seared into his struggling brain. He hadn't moved since the news fell on him. The German man sobbed from a short distance away, leaving him with one final blow: there were more camps like this one.

All for Jews. His people.

The knowledge hovered above him, not quite sinking in. Not penetrating the layer of denial that sprung up as soon as he saw what was happening. His mind desperately tried to protect itself from the destructive idea that these people were being tortured due to their religion. His religion.

But there was no other alternative. No excuse he could cling to in order to explain what he saw. So instead he felt himself shutting down, freezing in place to protect the last vestiges of his control.

He thought he could handle anything the war threw at him, but the war had other ideas. It unveiled to him the depths of cruelty, of how terrible humans can be to one another. He thought he knew what _bad_ was like. But what confronted him now was so indefinably awful that _bad_ was woefully inadequate. And as he stood there he knew the fucking denial was only temporary. The weight of these atrocities was eventually going to hit him. It was rising up, looming from above like a giant wave preparing to crash into him and shred him from the inside out. There was no ice, no shell to protect him. What he had been through before now was merely an inconvenience in retrospect. A minor ripple in the course of time that led him to the monstrosity now facing him.

He thought about _Kristallnacht_ and the passing attention he gave it when he heard the news. Hate crimes were nothing novel. He knew from his own experience that being Jewish always meant being a target. However this was not just broken storefronts and burned synagogues. This was… this was…

Why didn't anyone fucking _stop_ it? Why didn't anyone know?

Caroline.

His stomach heaved then, the first tendrils of comprehension reaching into his brain to fuck with his notion of what was good and what was evil. He swallowed the sourness back. His hands clenched, sweaty and shaking.

She knew.

He thought about the night in the cellar when they made peace. When they realized what was going on and actually talked to one another. When he mentioned what he heard about German Jews.

 _"_ _You know?"_

He thought about the night he found her.

 _"Jew. You're a Jew_ _."_

She fucking _knew_.

He didn't throw up again, but sickness swam through him. His breath came faster and the haunting forms around him blurred.

He needed to get the hell out of here. He needed to find her and get some goddamn answers before he fell apart.

"Liebgott!" The sound of his name jerked him out of his spiraling daze. Winters was standing with some medical officer, looking at him. A truck had pulled into the camp and soldiers inside were handing food to a growing mob of frantic, hungry men.

 _His_ people.

He robotically made his way over to his commanding officer. Winters' eyes rested on him for a moment and he realized that he had no idea what was showing on his face. His usual façade was gone and he suddenly felt naked and uncomfortable.

Not that he would have to worry about that for long. The next set of orders attacked his tenuous hold on himself and he used the last of his restraint to keep his voice level.

"I can't tell them that, sir," he heard himself say, working over what the medical officer commanded with a bitter taste on his tongue. Tell them they have to stay in here? Fuck that. His gut automatically rebelled against the notion of breaking that to these men. Some of them seemed to be only surviving on the faint hope that they would someday find freedom. To shut the gate back in their faces…

"You've got to, Joe." Winters nodded sympathetically and just like that he had no choice.

Blinking back the fresh dawning of chaos driving through him, he dragged himself back around to face the truck. The blood drained from his face as he watched them greedily consume chunks of cheese, nearly crushing each other to get to the outstretched hands doling it out. He swallowed, trying to give himself a reason to do this other than being court-martialed.

 _They would get the help they needed in here._

 _It was for their own good._

 _They were going to be alright._

 _They would understand._

One foot in front of the other. He slowly pushed himself forward, approaching them. His heart weighed a thousand pounds in his chest, telling him with every beat that this was wrong. That _he_ had been wrong about everything.

Despite the frenzy the men parted for him as he entered the fray to get to the truck. He heard voices in German blessing and thanking him. Others, too, in Polish and Czech, in words he did not understand but a sentiment that was the same. His jaw throbbed as he ground his teeth together.

He nearly faltered as hands grabbed onto his sleeves and dry, cracked lips pressed into his cheeks with kisses of gratitude. Tears were in their eyes as they looked at him and even though he tried to keep his gaze straight ahead he felt the emotion welling in his throat.

 _His fucking people._

In that moment he would have given anything to have the ice back. But it was nowhere to be found and the effect of what he was seeing – what he was experiencing – continued to sink into him with the sting of a thousand knives. It was only a week ago that he considered himself cold and heartless. Where had that person gone? Where was the goddamn stoicism when he needed it? Why did he feel like he was being cut open and having his insides ripped out?

Why did the Nazis do this? _What did Caroline not tell him?_

His brain felt like it was swelling inside his skull. His limbs were deadened as he climbed up onto the truck. Webster looked at him curiously but he didn't acknowledge it and hung onto one of the metal ribs crossing over his head.

They watched him eagerly when he called for their attention. He forced the words out, quickly before he lost the final fragments of his nerve. He couldn't look at them as he told them they couldn't leave, that the food was being taken away, that they weren't being rescued from this place just yet. Instead he stared at the trees rising behind the camp or at his shoes, trying not to listen to the agonized wails that rose as the men heard what he was saying.

Then the wave crashed downwards, flooding him with a sickening tide of awareness he couldn't handle. He felt it hit him as his voice tapered away. He stomach dropped to his feet and his eyes darted upwards, drawn to the traumatized victims before him. He took in their gaunt, dirt-streaked faces, now stretched into terror and dismay at the prospect of staying here. The yellow stars on their uniforms glared at him. The reek of death stained every breath he took. Behind them lay the bodies. So many bodies. All Jews like him. Executed.

The Nazi's tried to wipe them off the face of the earth. If America lost the war he would have been next.

His legs lost their strength and he collapsed on the bench beside him. As the howls continued he buried his face in his hands. For a second he cursed his parents for being Austrian, for teaching him the language that let him understand almost every plea and tormented cry that came behind him.

As a little kid he promised himself that he would never cry again. But that kid only had a taste of how awful the world could really be.

Holding his head, he sobbed.

* * *

"Liebgott?"

Lipton's voice filtered past the fog rounding through Joe's mind. The metal bench bit into his backside. He was still in the truck. His head was in his hands, his fingers fisting his hair. His eyes, finally, were dry. They burned when he blinked.

At the edge of his vision a figure crouched. He didn't know how long he had been sitting there. He vaguely remembered Malarkey trying to talk to him, but whatever he said was lost in the haze that made it difficult to comprehend anything other than the fact that being Jewish meant being dead in this country.

And Caroline. The stranger he thought he was in love with.

What had she done?

Schuellers words. _You'll find out soon enough. Find out what a fucking idiot you've been and how well she's played you._ It all made sense now.

Was he merely a ticket to get on the winning side of the war? Was everything a pure calculation?

What had she _done_?

"Hey, Joe," Lipton tried again, touching Joe's knee. He blinked once more and slowly reared back, his head feeling so heavy his neck strained to hold it up. A pack of cigarettes rested beside him. Malarkey must have left them.

Lipton looked at him, concern marking his expression. Pity.

Joe scrubbed his face with his palm. "Yes, sir?" His voice cracked.

"We are doing a sweep of the camp to ensure all of the living prisoners are accounted for."

Joe couldn't control his expression, no matter how hard he tried. Fucking hell, he was going to have to see everything up close and personal. Then again, this was personal for him, wasn't it?

 _Juden._

Fucking right, it was.

"Major Winters, though, would like you to accompany Captain Nixon to the offices over there," Lipton pointed to a larger building behind the huts, "to assist him in translating whatever documents were left behind."

Joe wiped his face again, relief making him slump against the bench. Documents. He could handle documents.

"Yes, sir," he replied, his voice sounding stronger to his own ears. Lipton stood and squeezed his shoulder, giving a small nod of understanding before jumping off the tailgate.

It was another moment before he could move himself. He found his canteen and drank deeply, wishing it could wash away how dirty he felt. How disgusting this place made him feel. Swiping the cigarettes to stuff in his pocket, he finally rose.

There were a few inquisitive stares as he climbed off the truck but he ignored them, finally able to arrange his face into an unwelcoming expression to keep questions at bay. It worked and he wasn't pestered as he made his way over to the building.

 _Verwaltung,_ a sign branded over the doorway. Administration. He pushed open the wooden door, revealing a dark and quiet interior. In here the smell that permeated outside was only a slight nuisance under the odor of paper, ink, and wood varnish. A brilliantly red swastika banner hung over the entryway. He stared at it, imagining himself yanking it down and the feel of the fabric under his fingers as he ripped it to shreds.

There was a faint rustling coming from the top of the stairwell leading to the second floor and his hand automatically went to his rifle. He didn't know if Nixon was here yet or not and for a moment he wondered what would happen if he came across some Nazi clerk that got left behind.

There would be blood. A lot of blood. If he had a reputation for savagery before –

"Joe." Nixon appeared on the second floor landing, looking somewhat unsteady. "Come on up."

He disappeared down the hall as Joe climbed the stairs. When he reached the top the wooden floor vanished under a flurry of papers. They had been dumped, it seemed, all over. A sign that the place had been abandoned in a hurry.

Nixon was in a small office going through a filing cabinet. His canteen sat open on the desk. The room smelled faintly of Vat 69.

"That," Nixon pointed one long finger at a thick book on the desk without turning around, "is where I need you to start. It is some sort of ledger."

Resting his rifle inside the door, he slid the book over to him. Nixon was right – it was a ledger. He opened the pages and was confronted with a long list of names.

"It is some sort of personnel book," he said.

"For the guards?" Nixon flipped through a file before tossing it aside.

"No…" Joe ran a finger over the headers, reading them aloud. "Intake date, country of origin, physical condition…" He paused for a second, comprehending what he was looking at. "Dorm assignment, labor assignment..."

Then the last column, which was as filled as the others. "…Death date."

Nixon turned then, swiping the canteen from the desk and taking a long swig. "For the prisoners," he corrected himself.

"Yes sir," Joe softly agreed. His jaw smarted again.

"That's probably why there is so many of them. They are likely all the same." Nixon let out a bitter chuckle and took another drink, gesturing towards a bookcase on the far wall. The shelves were filled with identical ledgers.

He was nauseous again. Flipping to the inside cover, he tried to take a calming breath.

"This one is just for September 1942 to December 1942." There had to be a thousand of names. A thousand deaths. Three months.

He slammed the book shut and rested a tight fist on it. This might be worse than searching for pulses on corpses.

Nixon's dark eyes watched him carefully. "I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't have to. If the Nazis had been thoughtful enough to keep their records in French I would have been able to put that expensive boarding school education to use for once. Shows me for not picking German." He looked down at the papers he was holding, a sardonic smile playing on his haggard face. "Of course, I didn't think my Grand Tour would be on top of a Sherman."

Joe didn't know what the hell a Grand Tour was and didn't ask. He stared at the rows and rows of ledgers.

Nixon tilted the canteen towards him. "Want some? You look like you need it."

He wet his lips as he eyed the extended drink. "Thank you sir," he replied quietly as he accepted it. The warm taste of the whiskey was inviting, a comforting counterbalance to the violent tumult beating though him. He quickly handed it back to Nixon to stop himself from finishing it off, knowing he would get plastered given the opportunity. How he wanted to feel nothing right now in the way only alcohol could provide made him ripe for bad decisions.

"Listen," Nixon started, looking around the room. "I'm pretty sure they burned almost anything useful in here. Why don't you take a break? Snoop around and get some souvenirs before I let everyone else in here to strip the place."

Joe didn't want more pity. But he didn't want to be in here, reading in black and white what happened to his people, even more. So he nodded, grabbed his rifle, and walked out to the hall.

The building was utterly silent and completely shielded from the horrors outside. If he didn't know better he would think he was any other office building, even in New York. The whiskey sloshed in his stomach as he slowly walked over the documents covering the floor, making his way past the offices lining either side of him. They were all similar – desks, chairs, filing cabinets and bookcases. All in disarray from the sudden retreat. He rummaged through a few of them - making the motions of looking for anything interesting – but his mind was elsewhere.

Her, of course. He went through every moment of their time together, trying to pick out clues he missed before. Something to reassure him that he hadn't been completely deceived. That there was still some redeeming factor in their relationship to stop him from…

Doing _what_ , exactly? Hating her? Forgiving her? Abandoning her?

Goddammit, what was she not telling him?

He wished he had taken that second drink. There was a loud crash from the first office and he jutted his head out into the hall to look. Nixon appeared, draining the last drops from his canteen before heading into the next office without a word.

Joe leaned against the doorframe, rubbing his aching forehead. He didn't know what the fuck he was going to do. If only he hadn't been such a fucking idiot…

Opening his eyes, he spied another office at the end of the hall. Unlike the solid wood of the other doors, this one had a window of frosted glass. Making his way over to it, he grasped the cold metal door knob and pushed it open.

It was larger than the others. An imposing desk centered the room, facing the door. The floor was covered by an expensive rug and a cold fireplace rose in one corner. It was considerably less messy than the others and he knew immediately whose office it was before he read the name plate under the window. _Kommandant._

He felt a small measure of satisfaction as he strolled into the room. Whoever this son of a bitch was Joe was sure he never envisioned a Jewish American soldier one day making himself right at home in this sanctum.

And that is exactly what Joe did. Circling the desk, he pulled out the plush leather chair and sunk down into it, kicking his dirty boots onto the pristine ink blotter. Leaning his head back, he lit a cigarette and watched the gray cloud of smoke he exhaled disappear against the ceiling.

"Fuck you," he said out loud, not caring if Nixon heard. "Fuck your country, your fucking swastikas, your fucking _sieg heils_ , and your fucking plan to kill everyone. Didn't work out so well, did it? You stupid motherfuckers. Here's one Jew you didn't get, sitting right in your fucking chair."

Yelling at nothing was almost as satisfying as the whiskey. It even made him forget about Caroline for two seconds. Grunting from behind the cigarette, he sat up and yanked open one of the drawers. It was mostly empty except for a bottle of ink and a silver plated letter opener, the handle monogrammed with a swastika. Pocketing it, he pulled open the next drawer below. Files. He piled them on the desk for Nixon to sort through. Then the final drawer. It was mostly empty also save for a large book. Propping it in his lap, he opened the front cover.

It was a photo album. The first few pages of pictures were normal – parties, vacations and such, just with everyone wearing fucking Nazi officer uniforms. The women with them were pretty and garbed in obviously expensive dresses. Wealth built on the backs being broken outside this office. His fingertips went white on the page.

One man was in almost every photograph, clearly the owner of the album. Joe brought the book closer to his face, sizing up the figure.

"Fat fuck," he spit at the portly officer he was staring at. Yes, the _kommandant_ was well fed while everyone else here was slowly being starved to death.

He dropped the book back into lap, taking a deep drag, and flipped through the pages. More parties, more trips into the Alps. Jesus Christ, was this bastard ever even _at_ the camp? He batted back another page and stilled, his question answered.

It was those front gates, closed. A group of men posed before it, all in _SS_ uniforms. The _kommandant_ stood in the middle, beaming proudly. Joe's jaw twitched. The photograph below it was taken in front of this building. This time the man was alone, his hands clasped behind his back to push his chest out and his feet splayed apart. A posture of power. Joe wanted to strangle him with his bare hands.

His cigarette was down to the filter. He pulled it from his lips and carefully – methodically – stubbed it out on the grinning face, leaving nothing but a burnt hole behind.

What followed were a series of pictures of the huts, the workshops, the bathrooms… all empty of prisoners. The photographer was clearly documenting the camp for some reason. Fucking bragging rights?

Maybe looking at this shit wasn't a good idea. He could feel himself losing it again, tumbling past the mediocre amount of restraint he managed to build while sitting in that truck. He lit another Lucky.

The next pages finally included some of the Jews. Scenes of them being unloaded off the trains, huddled together confused and frightened. The guards around them were severe, yelling and pointing. One had a German shepherd that looked like it was trying to bite at them. As he moved on they were pictured packed like sardines in the bunk houses, standing in ditches holding shovels, listlessly working on some sort of machinery in the shops. He didn't know how old the photographs were, but the men in them might as well have been the same as those who were outside. Their skin held the same sallowness, their skinny bodies also barely remained upright, and their expressions had the identical unsettling hopelessness.

God _damn_ it. He stood, throwing the book on the desk. What sort of fucking people would _do_ this? Why did it have to be the _Jews_?

He wanted revenge. An inky black darkness bled through him as he sucked on the smoke, stilling his mind to focus on one thought: he hated Nazis. He always did. But now… now this was something different. He didn't just want to kill them. He wanted every fucker who ever even looked at a swastika to pay. To suffer, slowly and painfully.

And he was going to fucking start with that fat asshole who held this office.

He went back to the book, wanting a photograph to take with him so he knew who to look for. Finishing the cigarette, he crushed the butt on the blotter. The best portrait now had no head, so he should take a –

His eyes stopped on the album. It had flipped to the back when he tossed it, to pictures he hadn't looked at yet.

Caroline.

She looked healthier, with a few more pounds on her frame and a blush on her cheeks, but it was undoubtedly her. Her blonde hair shimmered in the sun and she was wearing a suit that looked as pricey as the clothes the other women were wearing. A Party pin hung from the lapel.

She was standing next to a sign. A sign he had passed on the way here. _Kaufering_.

He snatched the book, his grip nearly tearing out the pages. Another picture was glued to the same page. Caroline and Henrich, standing at the gate.

Looking at the bunk houses.

Inspecting machinery at the shop.

Talking to the fucking _prisoners_.

He didn't realize he was rocking until he looked up and saw that the room was moving. His breath heaved out his chest, the sound like deafening in his ears. His mind screamed at him.

 _Caroline, Caroline, Car –_

Another page. In front of this building. Henrich in the middle. The _kommanant_ on one side. Caroline on the other. Henrich's arm around Caroline's waist.

 _Jesus Christ._

His eyes stung. His lungs burned. There was a loud rip and then the picture was in his hand, yanked clean off the page.

The blackness turned white. Angry, hot whiteness.

Schueller's bloody face. _What a fucking idiot you've been and how well she's played you._

Caroline's beguiling one _. You know?_

The smoking Luger. Her angry, dark voice. _He would be so proud._

What had he done? What had he _fucking_ done?

.

.

He was going to have to kill her.

* * *

 **Oh no! Needless to say the next chapter is not going to be good for Caroline. But don't give up hope for her!**

 **And a disclaimer - _I don't know German_. Shocking, I realize. I hope I haven't butchered things too much before now, but for this chapter I had to completely guess. _U_ _nerwünschtrom_ my own interpretation of what was said during the show and the German word for unwanted. I apologize to anyone who was totally confused and if someone knows the actual word said, let me know I will change it.**

 **12/10 - algebrakraken's sweet German skills for the win! The word has been fixed! Thanks :)**

 **12/11 - and thanks to maya for the grammar help!**

 **I hope guys liked it. Please review!**


	30. Chapter 29

**Warning: This chapter is so depressing. Like really, really depressing. I literately cried when I wrote parts of it. Gah, it is such a bummer. Please don't read it if you are in a good mood. It's just miserable! Why did I think of such a downer of a plot?**

 **There is a lot of flipping of perspective in this chapter. I debated keeping it as a single narrative or divided by lines and decided to go with lines. I hope this isn't too annoying. If the consensus is that it is I will remove them.**

 **Please read and prepare to be in a bad mood.**

* * *

When I think back on it, there has always been a tipping point in my life before everything descends into misery. A pause, a moment where time stops and I hold my breath before the world around me falls to pieces. Such a line of demarcation means that for every terrible event there is a distinct before and after that pinpoints where everything went wrong. Where I went wrong. It means that afterwards there are always my actions and my decisions to agonize over and wonder what would have happened if I had done things differently. A torturous bout of second-guessing and a moment of purgatory to consider the different paths I could have taken except for the one now laid out in front of me.

The first time this happened was in the silent darkness of our quiet house as I stood over my sleeping parents, during those fleeting seconds of lingering peace before I woke them and the panicked preparations began. I remember that I was still holding my comb and how the teeth bit into my palm.

* * *

 _"Mother… Mother, wake up."_

 _A sleepy sigh. "What is it?"_

 _"Someone saw Anne."_

 _The lights are frantically clicked on. I squint in the sudden brightness._

 _"Who?"_

 _"Henrich."_

 _Father curses, throws the covers back, and darts out of the room, his footsteps thumping down to the basement. Seconds later the sound of people coming up to the main floor fills the house, their hushed voices frightened. I follow Mother to the parlor where a gathering of ragged adults I have never seen before are quickly pulling on coats and gathering bags. My heart pounds in my ears. Father carries Anne down from the bedroom. Her face is bloodless._

 _The door to the rear yard is ripped open and the first group leaves, darting into the shadows and hauling themselves over the fence. Anne is wrapped in a blanket and placed in her father's arms. The broach is torn from her collar and shoved in my hands. We were just trying to have some fun. My face is wet with tears._

 _"I'm so sorry."_

 _No one hears me._

* * *

The second time was that same night. The Jewish refugees had left. I didn't get to say goodbye to Anne. The house was still again, but the calm was torn by tense apprehension as we stood there, waiting for the inevitable.

* * *

 _Mother is pacing. Father's voice is low._

 _"We couldn't risk it, even if that boy doesn't say anything."_

 _Mother's hands bite into my soldiers._

 _"Do you think he will tell? Your friend, Henrich?"_

 _I don't have to guess. I know._

 _The back door is still open, filling the room with a cold breeze._

 _A truck comes down the street, the engine sawing through the night. Mother and Father exchange frightened glances._

 _Mother's voice is shaking. "Should we –"_

 _The front door vibrates on its hinges with a violent pounding_

* * *

The third time, well, the third time was at Kaufering. The third time is why I was at the farmhouse.

* * *

 _"You are lucky you are so popular with the press. All the others who have failed me are no longer living."_

* * *

And now a fourth. Now, when Joe's accusing stare burns through me, I wonder how this could have turned out if I had been honest from the beginning. Would he have killed me that first night in blind hatred? Or would he have given me a chance to explain?

These musings run through my head in these frozen seconds we stand here, the world still and suspended in time as if we are trapped in a trance instead of reality. The choices I made stare me in the face and even though I know exactly what I have done wrong there is nothing I can do to stop what is coming. I've never been able to mitigate the consequences that ensue after these instances. That regret is only part of the punishment I deserve.

Then he is shifting, breaking the stagnant air hanging around us. Stepping towards me, his face cold and ruthless, he reminds me of how he looked towards me as I was tied to the stove. As I was shoved against the wall, his hand around my neck, after Schueller left. As I was bent backwards, his rifle cutting into my cheek, in the rear yard. All of those times he was ready to kill me.

But only somewhat. The brutality on his face now has no comparison. I still don't move.

He doesn't speak as he comes towards me. He doesn't say a word. His presence invades my space and that _smell_ reaches my nose. He has been there. He knows what happened.

His fingers encircle my arm, biting into my flesh. A touch that was so heated and tender a few hours ago is now hard and almost bruising.

With a sharp tug he is dragging me across the camp, away from the house where I awoke in those last minutes of happiness and away from the veneer of safety this place provided. Men move out of our way, watching me with distrust and Joe with cautious acknowledgement like they know what is about to happen. Deep in my conscious I recognize my fate as well but I don't try to get away. I should have told him from the start. I love him – I know I still do – but I have betrayed him in the worst way.

We pass Don Malarkey, standing with group of soldiers who I assume are in Joe's unit. He glances briefly at us, his eyes saddening as they go from Joe to me, before turning away. The others say something to Joe, but he doesn't react.

I look down at the hand wrapped tightly around my arm, wrinkling the sleeve of my blouse.

* * *

 _A hand grabs the back of my night shirt. The door has been kicked open. So much yelling. So many men in uniforms like Henrich's. The back doorway is steps away. I am so close to escape. I can see the rear stoop. I can make out the footsteps the others made in the snow. I can spy the few dim stars in the sky._

 _I'm wrenched backwards._

 _"No!" I hear myself shout. I kick back with my bare feet and lunge forward. But the open doorway only grows smaller and smaller until it is crowded with men filing out to chase after those who ran. Those we were hiding._

* * *

We round a corner to a motor pool. He still hasn't spoken. A man with a clipboard approaches but Joe doesn't spare him a glance. His grip on me coarsens and I am tossed into the first jeep we come across. I land heavily on the bare metal seat and before I can right myself Joe is pushing me into a sitting position and tying some sort of strap across my waist. The knot is tight and complicated.

It's not for my safety. It's to stop me from getting out.

The man with the clipboard frowns and talks louder. Joe doesn't respond.

He still doesn't look at me. His countenance is lethal.

* * *

 _I struggle harder. Mother is screaming, her words lost in all the noise and commotion. I'm yanked upwards and then I'm being carried through the parlor and out the front. His hold is merciless and unkind and tears soak my face._

 _Our neighbors are out in the street, staring. More men in uniform surround a truck, staring. Henrich stands beside one of them, staring._

 _Compared to the bedlam inside it is deathly quiet out here. Whispers, cruel and biting, float in the cold air._

 _"I knew something was going on – "_

 _"They were always so strange –"_

 _"Hiding filthy Jews –"_

 _I finally see Mother. She is bawling. Father looks broken._

 _I cry harder and it echoes off the cold, wet cobblestones._

 _The man holding me shakes me roughly. "Stop crying!"_

 _A loud crash comes from inside and one of the men appears on the stoop, heading for Father._

 _"Where are they?" he asks, his voice loud and fierce in the oppressive night._

 _"Who?" Father answers. The man hits him. Another sob wails from my throat. I'm shaken again._

 _"Shut up or I will shut you up!"_

* * *

Joe pushes past the now yelling man and climbs in the driver's seat. The engine turns over loudly and he shoves the gear stick forward. We take off suddenly and my head snaps backwards. He changes gears, speeding up as we head out of the camp. The path is primitive and rough, making my tailbone crack against the unforgiving seat.

* * *

 _A sudden uproar comes from the end of the block and several men appear out of the darkness, surrounding a huddled group of people. As they come closer I realize who they are and even though I am too young to know what is about to happen I still grasp what this means. But I don't know what to do._

 _I was supposed to keep it a secret. This is all my fault._

* * *

I grip the door to steady myself as we encounter the main road and make a sharp turn, heading north.

"Where are we going?" I venture, trepidation replacing the resignation as we speed up further.

He doesn't answer and I don't ask again. I would almost prefer Schueller's screaming anger to the icy wall of blankness sitting beside me.

The forest flies by on either side of the road, a blinding blur of green and brown.

* * *

 _I see Anne's parents as the group is lined up against the wall around our garden. Anne is not with them._

 _The same man is yelling at Father. He isn't responding. Mother has gone silent as well, staring at them._

 _I keep bawling. The man's hold on me becomes painful. "Stop crying!" he growls again._

 _There is shouting coming from the rear yard and then several loud pops. I don't recognize them. They sound like firecrackers._

 _Another crash shakes the house. Wisps of gray smoke drift from the upstairs window._

* * *

If we keep heading north at this pace we are going to run into the German line. My dread ticks up a notch.

Suddenly he hits the brakes, throwing me forward, and makes a sharp turn, directing the jeep into the trees. Low hanging branches ricochet off the windshield. I look to him, but his expression is impassive as ever. The jeep bounces over the uneven terrain.

* * *

 _The men in uniform are yelling at the Jews and pressing them against the wall. The one who had been questioning at Father is holding a pistol._

* * *

My breath comes in shallow gasps as we go deeper in the woods. The strap across my lap bites into my hip bones.

* * *

 _The first shot is deafening and unexpected. I freeze, shock cutting off my cries. In slow motion the body falls limply to the ground, a fresh pool of blood seeping through the cracks in the stones. It can't be… they were just… how did…_

 _Flames become visible in the house, the light turning the black puddle orange._

 _A shriek rips from my throat._

 _"Stop screaming!" A hand clamps on my mouth._

 _Another gunshot. Another dull thud._

 _More screams. I don't realize they are coming from me. I don't hear Mother trying to tell me to be quiet._

 _He walks down the line. Another shot._

 _"Shut the fuck up!" the man holding me swears._

 _So much blood. Before now I have never seen more than a nosebleed. Before now the only dead person I had laid eyes on was in a casket at a funeral._

 _POP_

 _I can't stop screaming. Something is stuffed in my mouth and wound across my face. Tightly. The fabric tastes bad. My voice is now no more than a muffled whimper and the gunshots are only louder. I can't breathe through this. It's choking me. I have to get it off._

 _One more crack of the pistol. Empty, blank eyes gaze at me._

 _Get this off. Get this off._

 _Large hands clamp down on my wrists, stopping my attempts to claw at the gag. One of the men pulls something off one of the bodies. Anne's blanket. It is stained dark maroon._

 _My screams are garbled._

 _I see a hand swinging towards me._

 _Everything goes black._

* * *

We reach a clearing and Joe finally stops. He kills the engine and doesn't budge as the soft clinking of the cooling cylinders fades away. The forest is devoid of any noise. The last rays of sunlight illuminate everything a fading gold and the encroaching chill nips at my fingertips. A stifling, thick blanket of silence descends and I tug at the knot. It doesn't budge.

Time stretches as we sit, inert in our seats. Low in my stomach my nervousness builds as every minute ticks by without him moving, talking, or even blinking. His face remains forward, his grip on the steering wheel making his knuckles white. I debate talking first to head off the explosion but I can't think of anything to say. I don't know where to try to begin. I don't know how much he has discovered and what he has planned here, out in the forest where no one can hear us. So I watch him, biting my fingernails.

More time passes. The tension wires through me. I can't tell what he is thinking. In the breezeless air whiffs of Kaufering still drift off his clothing. My teeth tear at my nails.

Still nothing indicates Joe is going to move.

Finally, as the sunlight bleeds from the sky, the low rumble of his voice emerges from his chest like the warning of an approaching storm. He stares through the windshield, his words whispering over me, so quiet as to be almost indistinct. "You were going to exterminate us."

Suddenly the ice in my limbs isn't from the cold. My breath catches. "Joe – "

With a sudden clamor he is jumping out of the vehicle. My voice chokes as he barrels around the front towards me. With a violent yank he unties the strap and lifts me out. I barely find my footing before his hand is around my arm again, dragging me further into the forest.

He doesn't say anything else as we merge with the encroaching shadows of the woodland. I trip over the rocky ground but he doesn't slow, towing me along without looking back. We reach another indistinct clearing and I'm being swung around to face him. His gaze finally meets mine and I flinch at what is found there. Rage and pain burn fiercely from a place deep within him, showing me how cutting what I have done has been. I try to back away but his arm anchors me in place.

"Joe," I try again but his hand instantly tightens on my bicep. I snap my mouth shut.

"You were _exterminating_ us," he repeats, his voice taking a strangled edge through his clenched teeth. I swallow and reach out, desperate to touch his unwelcoming face in hopes to remind him of everything we have been through. That the past few days meant something and it wasn't all lies. Anything to temper the rising tide of wrath in his eyes.

He knocks my hand away and steps backward, releasing me.

"Why? Why, Caroline?"

I don't know what to say. Such a simple question, _why_. But an answer so complicated that my mouth opens but no words emerge.

The tension radiating off him is almost visible in the cooling air. He runs a hand roughly over his face, pushing his helmet back on his forehead. "I should have known, really. You are a fucking Nazi. You wouldn't tell me what was going on with you. Now I know why. You _lying_ – "

"It isn't what you think," I say quickly. "I was at that farmhouse as a punishment. I tried to fight – "

"Oh really?" he sneers. "You tried to fight? What did you do? What exactly happened?" His hand fishes inside his jacket. "Because _this_ makes it seem like you didn't do a damn thing."

Something is waved in front of my face and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. Henrich. An officer whose name I've forgotten. _Me._

I remember this being taken. I remember that day in crystal clear detail.

The picture burns into my brain. It is slightly trembling in his fingers.

"Is this what fighting looks like to you?" His voice has gone deadly quiet.

I can't look away from my smiling face. "You don't understand."

He scoffs and turns the picture to look at it himself. "I saw them all. The _kommandant_ kept an album in his desk. You _talked_ to them, Caroline. Those starving, dying Jews. You looked them in the fucking eye – " He stops himself, seeming to struggle for control. I back up a step.

"Yes," my voice is feeble and weak. He found the pictures. He isn't interested in listening. I don't blame him. "I was there, but you don't know what happened."

"It's pretty _fucking_ clear!" his voice suddenly rises, shouting at me. I flinch and back up another step. He is shaking harder, warning me how little control he has left. I have to _try_ to make him realize -

"Let me explain. Please, just let me -"

He stuffs the picture back in his pocket. "No, you had your goddamn chance. We were in that cellar for three fucking days and you didn't say a word about the truth. It's too late now. I'm not going to let you lie to me even more."

My pulse throbs behind my eyes and I fight to keep my breathing steady. "I tried to tell you – "

His face hardens. "You _tried_ to? And what, you changed your mind? Decided that you wanted to get to the American side first? That you wanted to use me before I could find out? You knew we were going to discover it. You knew that you were going to be exposed. I can only fucking think that you conned me so you could avoid the consequences of what you've done – that saving me would earn you some mercy."

My throat feels like it is closing up. "That isn't true – I was afraid you would react like this -"

A frenetic laugh emerges from him then, loud and grating in the quiet clearing. "You were afraid I was going to react badly?! You were afraid I was going to fly of the handle? You decided me finding out like _this_ would be better? Because, believe me, things would have turned out much better for you if you told me when I still thought I had feelings for you."

I recoil again, but this time it isn't out of fear. A fiery pain spreads through my chest.

He steps closer, towering over me. "You really had me going, Caroline. Poor woman, locked up in that house, mistreated by everyone. I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. I was so fucking stupid, feeling sorry for you when you were pushed around by Schueller, Greta, and Henrich…"

He trails off, suddenly stiffening. His eyes narrow down at me with sickening recognition. "What does _Judenscheisse_ mean?"

I breathe faster, dread trailing through my limbs. "There is a reason I was being punished – "

He bends forward until I can't look anywhere but at his face. "Henrich said it. What does it mean?"

"When I was young, my parents tried to –"

A heavy hand claps on my shoulder. I jump. "What to fuck does _Judenscheisse_ mean, Caroline?"

Tears fill my eyes then, hot and blinding. "Please, Joe."

He roughly shakes his head and his grip tightens. "That shit isn't going to work anymore. Answer the fucking _question_."

I inhale deeply, fortifying myself. "It's an offensive term. It refers to someone's possessions."

His mouth tightens. " _Judensheisse._.. Jew...shit?"

I swallow back the swelling alarm. "Yes."

There is a bout of silence as he puts two and two together. His breathing becomes louder and faster.

Without warning he tears himself away from me, spinning around and stalking across the grass to put distance between us. He stops, the line of his shoulders rigid.

"Bare walls, clothes that don't fit, no personal items… nothing in that house was yours, was it?"

A blink and the tears begin to spill over down my cheeks. "No," I whisper.

He doesn't face me. "What happened to the Jews who were there before?"

"I don't know." I was never told. I can make an accurate guess, but I don't volunteer it.

Another stretch of silence descends, heavy and stressed. His torso rises and falls. When he speaks again, his voice is taut and forced.

"Have you killed any?"

A noise leaks out of me then, distressed and distraught. Unconsciously I have been waiting of this question. It's the only one that matters, really. It's the one that is going to determine whether I walk out of these woods or not. But I still don't know what to say. Have their deaths been my fault? If I hadn't remained friends with Henrich would the Jews been found? If I had been better at keeping our secrets would things turned out as they did? If I hadn't been so foolish would Anne and her family be alive today?

 _Yes._

Guilt, stunning and painful, punches me in the gut again. Always again and again. It's been my constant companion all this time. I have killed them, I suppose. And to seal my fate I became a Nazi.

 _Pull the trigger_.

And then I had actual blood on my hands.

Schueller, my parents, Anne, those helpless others – they are all dead because of me either directly or indirectly.

 _I'm a murderer._

I'm as guilty as any other Nazi.

My silence is damning. But I don't break it. I deserve this. I deserve what is about to happen. What this is going to drive him to do, out here where no one will find me.

I don't speak. I can't speak.

And with that Joe's restraint crumbles in front of me.

He whips around on his heel, his face pale and his eyes hot with astonishment and fury. The clearing around us narrows, growing darker and more menacing under the force of his unleashed anger. I try not to cower, try not to run away from the fate steamrolling directly towards me. It's been something I've been dodging for too long.

The emotion drains from his expression, replaced by that terrifyingly familiar murderous mask. He has made his decision. I'm at his mercy.

His footfalls land heavily in the grass as he starts towards me. His hand moves to his waist and there is a flash of metal. The Luger.

I expect fear to choke me, for pure panic to take over. It dances just under my skin, but I stay still and watch as he comes for me. _I deserve this._

I can't look at him anymore. I can't watch the hatred crossing his face, knowing that it was meant for me. He is gone to me, retreated back into his shell and locked away. I'll never see him smile again. I'll never hear him laugh again. I'll never hear the soft tenderness in his voice again.

He is going to kill me.

Maybe I should struggle more. Maybe I should run. But where would I go?

Why should I live?

Part of me only wishes he wasn't the one who has to do this. There is no forgiveness for the depths of his despair and the pain I've caused him.

And then he is there, crowding around me. The self-preserving part of my brain urges me to move away for my own survival, but the force of his rage halts me in place just as effectively as his body blocking mine and my resolution that this has to happen.

He grabs my collar then, forcefully pushing me up against a tree. The barrel presses into my forehead. A whimper, unconscious and instinctive, echoes from my throat. I stiffen as the cold metal bites into my skin and wait for the explosion and the quick, painless end. A splatter of blood painted on the trunk and me, left here for no one to find.

"I'm sorry, Joe," I whisper as his finger tightens around the trigger. I am. So sorry for everything.

As he hears me the mask slips and his face screws into a look of pure anguish. "Don't fucking say that. You've done nothing but lie to me. And what you've done to my _people_ …" His voice falters and the gun works harder into my skin. His jaw clenches as his hand tenses around the grip. Then his expression roughens again.

For a moment the only sound is my choked gasps. Every second ticks by excruciatingly but the gun isn't firing. My eyes burn again.

A tremor moves up his arm, ending where the metal meet my skin. The looming silence surrounds us, waiting for the inevitable _pop_ to shatter the edgy air of anticipation hanging over us.

But then nothing. _Nothing._ I feel myself unraveling at the seams, losing my composure at the torture of waiting for him to move his finger those few centimeters and end everything. His fingers dig into my collar ruthlessly and the barrel cuts into my face but there is _nothing_.

" _Godamnit_!" he suddenly shouts, shoving me against the tree and wheeling away. With a tormented yell his arm rears back and the Luger goes flying into the dark trees. For one heart stopping second, as the bark bites into my back, I think he is going to twist around and kill me with his bare hands. His chest heaves and an inhuman cry bursts from his mouth, ricocheting through the stifling silence. I shrink against the trunk as the despair and misery fill my ears and I'm faced with what I've done to him.

I've destroyed him.

The guilt for the past has been with me for so long I have become accustomed to the steadfast weight in my chest. But now, as I look upon his defeated face, I realize that in trying to make amends I have just made everything that much worse. He isn't dead, but he is just at damaged. Because of me. And this was someone I love. _Again_.

 _I'm a monster._

Why doesn't he kill me? Why doesn't he put things right? Why doesn't he give me what I _fucking_ deserve?

As the shout fades away he slumps forward, pulling his helmet off his head to run a hand through his hair. He doesn't move his gaze from the ground and he says nothing else, letting his betrayal send the message loud and clear.

Part of me wants to go hunt for that Luger and finish the job myself.

I feel my pulse pounding in my throat and for a moment I curse that my heart still beats. That I was ever put on this planet to cause so much devastation. This morning I would have tried to comfort him, would have done anything to remove that look from his face. This morning he would have accepted it. In this dimming moment he doesn't want me anywhere near him and I can only stand here uselessly to survey the wreckage of what we had.

He straightens, still holding his helmet, and gazes off in the direction the Luger had landed. His countenance has gone blank again, but this time not with lethal intent. Instead he just looks drained, like the last bit of life has been wrung from his bones. Without a word he turns away from me, back towards the way we came. His figure moves in the twilight, pushing forward out of the clearing. I don't call after him. There is nothing left to say.

He disappears. I know he's not coming back.

My trembling knees finally give out and the rough surface of the tree tears at my blouse as I sink to sit between the ragged roots.

In the distance I hear the jeep engine start and shift into gear. The sound of tires rolling over the rough ground sinks into the clearing until they fade away too.

I'm alone.

I wish he'd shot me.

* * *

 _"Wake up. Wake up, Caroline."_

 _My head is hurting. I'm cold. My eyes twitch behind my eyelids, feeling gritty and scratchy. I slowly try to open them but the world outside is glaringly bright. My mouth is dry and sour. I'm lying on something hard. The room smells like cigarette smoke. I roll my head towards the voice, trying to force feeling back into my tingling limbs._

 _"There you go. Open your eyes for me, sweetheart."_

 _I crack my eyelids back open and make out a table sitting at the far end of the room. There a two chairs, with one occupied by a lone figure. A row of rough tiles stretches from the legs of the table to me and I realize I'm lying on the floor._

 _Slowly I sit up. My body aches and I blink, willing my vision to focus on the figure._

 _It is a man I've never seen before. He is clad in back, in a uniform I have never seen before. His precisely shined boots tap impatiently on the floor. He watches me, smoking. His glasses flash in the bright overhead light and his small mustache twitches with every pull on the cigarette._

 _He smiles at me. "Good morning."_

 _I shiver. The room is freezing._

 _"Where are my parents?" My voice wheezes past my parched throat._

 _"Just down the hall," he answers. "Why don't you have a seat?" He points at the other chair._

 _"I want to see them," I respond, not moving. His smile becomes colder and his gloved fingers drum on the bare tabletop._

 _"Do what I tell you and I promise that you will."_

 _I'm not sure that I trust him. His fingers stop moving as I stay on the floor._

 _"Do you want to see them?"_

 _His gaze is unsettling but I nod._

 _"Then sit," he pointedly motions towards the chair across from him, "at the table."_

 _After another moment I gather stiffly to my feet and slowly make my way over to the seat._

 _He scrutinizes me from behind the cloud of smoke, his lips stretched back into that smile._

 _"I'm Dr. Mueller."_

* * *

I might have hypothermia. I might be about to wander into the encampment of either army. I might fall into a hole in the middle of the forest and starve to death.

I don't care.

He should have shot me.

My legs drag me forward, shuffling my feet over the ground.

He should have shot me.

Tree limbs scrape across my face. The woods are pitch black, the moon blocked out by branches.

He should have shot me.

* * *

 _"Do you know why you are here, Caroline?"_

 _I stare at him. The mustache jerks again._

 _"Answer when I ask you a question."_

 _He isn't going to help me. He is with the men who killed Anne._

 _SMACK. His fist hits the table._

 _"I'm not going to remind you anymore after this. If you want to see your parents again you will cooperate. Understand?"_

 _I want Mother. I shiver again. " I don't know why I'm here."_

 _He relaxes back into the chair. "Who were those people living in your cellar?"_

 _"I don't know."_

 _He stares at me as he slowly lights another cigarette. "You're a smart girl, I can tell. I think you do know something but you just don't want to share it with me. So let me explain what is going to happen if you lie again."_

 _From his belt he pulls out a thin strop. It's no bigger than a ruler and as narrow as a twig. He holds it lightly in his fingers._

 _"My father used one of these on me when I was a child and misbehaved. Did yours?"_

 _I shake my head._

 _"Hold out your palm."_

 _Mother. I just want to see her. I hold out a shaky hand._

 _With a reflex too quick for me to see he slaps the strip of leather against my skin. The sting is immediate and a welt boils up from the reddened flesh. I snatch my hand back with a cry._

 _"That is just a hint of how it feels when it is used at full force." He carefully places the strop on the table between us. "I find the shins to be the best location for a strike. Harder to hit, but so much more effective. Much better than the back."_

 _I stay silent, cradling my hand._

 _"Who were those people living in your cellar?"_

 _The urge to cry builds behind my eyes. "You already know. You killed them."_

 _He clucks his tongue. "Well, my dear, we may have shot them, but that is really your fault, isn't it? Your family wasn't even in our files until you messed up."_

 _I sniff. Everything blurs with hot tears._

 _"Your behavior led us to them. Henrich was suspicious, but he wasn't going to climb that tree until you tipped him off when you wouldn't let him inside. When you wouldn't go to any of the rallies. You should have just pretended. You should have lied better."_

 _He leans forward then, bending towards me._

 _"It's all your fault."_

* * *

I'm at the road. How did I get here? I don't know.

I have to make a decision. Left or right. American or German.

It's surprisingly easy. Joe didn't finish the job. I'll have to have them do it instead. The suffering that is ahead my penance.

I turn right. The road is a silver path in the moonlight.

There might be soldiers ahead. I might be shot.

I hope I am.

I'm never going to see Joe again.

* * *

 _"But like I said, you are a smart girl. Have you thought of why you messed up so terribly?"_

 _By now I'm crying so hard I can only hiccup in answer. He continues, his voice cold and smooth._

 _"I think it was because, deep down, you wanted them to be found. You knew your parents shouldn't have been hiding them. You knew it was wrong, didn't you?"_

 _I manage to shake my head._

 _He crosses his legs and abruptly changes the subject. "Do you get good grades in school, Caroline?"_

 _I nod._

 _"Do you enjoy your studies?"_

 _I gulp back my tears. "Yes, sir."_

 _"What is your favorite subject?"_

 _I don't want to answer these questions. I want my parents. "History."_

 _His face lights up. "Ah, yes, history! It is my favorite subject as well. Tell me, what have you been learning this year in your class?"_

 _I hesitate and try to wipe my wet cheeks. I haven't liked the class so much this year. "About the Jews."_

 _"What about them?"_

 _My hands flatten against the table. "What they… what they did."_

 _"Which is what?" He is baiting me. He wants me to say it. I picture Anne's face and my stomach turns._

 _"Tell me what the Jews did, Caroline."_

 _I stare at my lap. "T-try to destroy Germany."_

 _His fingertips idly circle his raised knee. "And do you agree with that? That they tried to destroy Germany?"_

 _I purse my lips. He isn't going to like this answer. But I don't want to be striked. "No, sir."_

 _"Why not?" His voice has dropped an octave._

 _"Because...because they were nice."_

 _His fingers stop. "You believe that? Weren't you taught that is one of their tricks?"_

 _Anne was nice. She wasn't acting._

 _He uncrosses his legs and sits up. "Do you believe in your Fuhrer, Caroline? Do you think he is acting in our best interest when it comes to the Jews?"_

 _I don't want to lie, but to say I don't would be treason. I eye the strop._

 _"Yes, sir."_

 _He acts without warning. The pain is blinding._

* * *

I blink and I'm standing in front of Greta's home. I don't remember the journey. I don't know if I came across anyone else. I'm still in one piece and not arrested, so I suppose not.

The lights are on inside. I should go knock on the door. I should spit in her face. But my feet stay rooted to the ground and I stand there in the dark night, staring at the house.

Time goes by. The lights go off, one by one. Maybe I'm frozen here. My breath fogs in front of me but strangely I don't feel cold. Maybe I will freeze to death and my problems will be solved.

Just the upper corner of the house is still lit. Her bedroom. I should throw a rock through that window.

The curtains flutter as if the power of my hatred is leaking through the walls. Her face appears, wrinkled and apprehensive. When her eyes land on me, still standing in the road, she jumps. Her mouth moves, forming words I can't hear. That I don't want to hear. Her expression becomes angry and pointed and I know what she is going to do.

It's exactly what I want.

I turn to head home.

* * *

 _I can't stop shaking._

 _Blood, dried and cracking, flakes from my legs when I move, which isn't very often. Just climbing up to sit here, in this chair, has made me feel lightheaded._

 _Time has passed. Maybe days, maybe weeks. This windowless, airless chamber makes it meaningless and I don't actually know how long I've been here. The lights never go off. No else comes in._

 _Just him._

 _He always wears the same uniform. He is always smoking. This time he has brought me a book. "Der Giftpilz," the cover reads. I stare at it listlessly._

 _"Read it to me."_

 _"You said I would get to see my parents."_

 _He slaps the strop on the table. I open the pages._

 _"Just as it is often hard to tell a toadstool from an edible mushroom, so too it is often very hard to recognize the Jew as a swindler and criminal…"_

 _He sits back and closes his eyes._

 _When I'm done he stands to leave._

 _"Do you know what a traitor is, Caroline?" he asks, straightening his uniform._

 _I want him to go. I nod._

 _"Good." He steps closer, digging around his coat. After a moment he produces a hard roll._

 _"You must be hungry."_

 _My stomach growls as I eye the food. It's the first I've seen here. He reaches out to hand it to me but just as I am about to grab it he yanks it back._

 _"You can have this when you repeat after me: 'My parents are Jew-loving traitors.'"_

 _I stare at him, my head spinning. I can't…not..._

 _I take too long to answer. He gives an unsympathetic smile and, without a word, he bites into it himself._

 _He doesn't blink as he eats it all. I see every mouthful, my arms wrapped around my painfully cramping middle._

 _He leaves and the book stays on the table. I'm to have it memorized by the time he comes back._

* * *

My house is black and still. The front door is closed.

I stagger up the path and push open the gate. It squeaks loudly in the stillness and I trod to the entryway. I see my hand wrap around the door handle but can't feel anything but cold numbness.

It isn't locked. I step through the threshold into the musty silence. The body is gone; the floor is stained black in the silver light. The air still smells of blood and sweat. And, underneath that, it still smells of Joe.

My feet guide me to the bedroom. The bed has been tossed on its side.

I think of his hand on my ribs. I think of his arms carrying me.

Maybe I should change. Be in clean clothes for when they come and get me. I could put on my nicest dress for my burial.

The thought drips out of my mind as quickly as it arises and I stumble back down the hall. I've walked through the puddle of coagulating blood. My footprints are dark shapes against the rough wood.

The kitchen. The wall is still heaped in the yard. The pile of wood he chopped for me is still stacked by the chopping block.

His first kiss was right there, against that wall. Mine was right here, by the table.

He should have shot me.

* * *

 _I'm so hungry. I'm so tired._

 _I barely keep my eyes open and lean heavily against the table. He doesn't appear to notice._

 _"You will become one of us, whether you like it or not."_

 _I don't want to be one of them. But I don't know how much more I can take. The chair is splattered with blood from out last session._

 _"Think of it – the daughter of dirty partisans becoming the face of the Nazi Party. It would be glorious. You would live like a princess, my dear. The fanciest meals, the most luxurious hotels. You would be my greatest creation, my finest work. I and my associates would be invited into Hitler's inner circle. It would be perfect for all of us. There is no reason to keeping resisting, really. You will fight for us, Caroline. You will become one of us. Why wouldn't you? "_

 _He pauses like he wants a response but I can't raise the energy to give him one. His chair scrapes against the tiles and I wince, preparing for another blow to my legs._

 _His hand teases through my hair and I flinch. He gently brushes it back from my face and lifts my chin so that I am looking at him._

 _"We don't like doing this to you. We wish we didn't have to. You are your own greatest enemy, Caroline. Stop fighting us and we'll stop fighting you."_

 _As his black eyes beat into mine sickness curls up my throat. I feel myself crumbling, giving in to the poisonous remedy he was offering. I just want this to stop. I just want some food._

 _He steps away and points to a new book, "Trau keinem Fuchs auf grüner Heid und keinem Jud auf seinem Eid."_

 _"Read."_

 _My hands are gray and trembling as I slowly open the cover. My voice is a whisper in my dry throat._

 _"The father of the Jews is the Devil…"_

* * *

The cellar is pitch black. I slip in another puddle of blood at the bottom of the ladder and hang on the rung for dear life. Eventually getting my balance, I carefully make my way to the shelves. Some of the items have been thrown to the floor and my feet kick at them as I shuffle forward. Moving my memory, I run my hand over the shelf I knew had the matches. They are still there and I'm able to strike one despite my uncooperative hands. The meager flame shows the mess left by those who cleaned up the bodies. I search until the fire licks at my fingertips. Striking another, I spy what I'm looking for by the overturned cot. The latch is still fastened on my sewing box and the contents are still safely inside.

I tuck it against my body with the splint and straighten.

The mattress is next to the frame of the cot. It still holds the imprints of our bodies.

I remember his solid warmth. The rough calluses of his gentle hands. The first time I saw him smile.

The flame burns at my fingers and goes out again, plunging me back into darkness.

* * *

 _I am going to die._

 _I just need…_

 _Whatever he wants…_

 _"Say it, Caroline."_

 _"My parents…"_

 _I can't catch my breath even though I haven't moved from the chair in so long my body hurts. The bread hovers closer._

 _"You can do it, sweetheart. Just say it."_

 _"My parents… are… Jew-loving traitors." The words choke out and I fall forward, ready to hit the floor._

 _Gloved hands catch me and push me back upright._

 _The bread is placed in my hands. His voice descends from above._

 _"I knew you were a good candidate. You and I are going to do just fine, Caroline."_

* * *

I slap the sewing basket on the breakfast table and sit heavily in the seat. My splint itches. It's filthy. I don't need it anymore.

It comes off with some tugging and I chuck it into the mess of the kitchen. My hand is a soft palette of green and yellow in the moonlight. My fingers bend when I tell them to. That's good enough.

The latch opens with a click that is deafening in the dead calm of this place. I pull open the lid and carefully lay the contents of on the table top.

Joe's dog tag. The note he wrote. Two packs of cigarettes.

The plastic package of the cigarettes crinkles in my grip and I curiously pull out one of the thin white rolls of paper to wave under my nose. His always smelled different than Dr. Mueller's.

It was hard for Joe, going for days without these. Dr. Mueller consumed so many that the haze lingered long after our sessions and as I got older the smell always made a thin shadow of panic haunt the back of my mind. But now as I hold the little thing in my fingers I wonder what the fuss was about.

What did it matter anyway? In the movies the condemned always had one last cigarette.

I strike a match and light it.

* * *

 _I feel better. My head no longer aches. My vision is back._

 _The food comes regularly now._

 _But for some reason I think I am emptier inside than ever before._

 _Dr. Mueller sits across from me again. His smile is more genuine now. "I'm proud of you, Caroline. Say it one more time for me."_

 _"My parents are Jew-loving traitors." I don't hesitate. He doesn't strike me for lying. Probably because I'm not sure I am._

 _The stack of books I have accumulated sits on the table. In the endless hours spent in this room they are usually my only company._

 _I am not sure of anything anymore. I dream in pictures – pictures I see in those books. I tried to think of Anne once. All I could manage was a fuzzy outline of her face before I gave up._

 _"Do you know how long you have been in here?"_

 _I shake my head._

 _"Two months! Can you believe that? Much longer than my other patients. For a little while I was concerned you were going to starve yourself to death."_

 _It doesn't feel like two months. It feels like I can't remember ever not being in this room._

 _"You've been doing so well that I've arranged a little present for you. How would you like to go outside?"_

 _Outside? Where I can see the sky? I sit up in my chair and he laughs as he stands._

 _"I thought so. You don't even need a coat – spring has arrived while you were stuck in here. Come now, quickly."_

 _I get up as fast as I can manage with the healing scabs on my shins and he opens the door to reveal the dark hallway._

 _Just before I step through his arm blocks me. I look up at his dark eyes._

 _"One more time."_

 _"My parents are Jew-loving traitors."_

 _His mustache twitches. "Perfect."_

 _He drops his arm and I enter the corridor. Even though we are still inside the air already feels leagues better than the stifling blanket that hung in that room._

 _Dr. Mueller walks in front of me, leading us to a larger door. He turns to me as he grabs the handle._

 _"Are you ready?"_

 _I nod eagerly._

 _It opens with a low groan and for a moment the sunlight burns my eyes. I instinctively shudder, protecting myself from the sudden onslaught after two months of nothing more than a single lightbulb. Dr. Mueller's hand presses against my back, ushering me forward. The air is warm and smells like honeysuckle. A light breeze runs through my dirty hair._

 _I carefully pry my eyes back open, a smile creeping across my mouth._

 _We are in some sort of courtyard. High, stone walls surround us on all sides. A honeysuckle bush is crawling over one edge and is under assault by a group of bees._

 _Blinking in the still painful sunlight, I see a group of men at the far end of the space. As I watch they separate, leaving one man standing against the wall._

 _Father._

* * *

I light another cigarette. I can see the appeal. The nicotine makes my heart flutter, my stomach shifts uncomfortably, and my lungs burn. But as I start on the second one those feelings slowly ebb and are replaced with a strange sense of drugged calm.

There is writing on the bottom of the package: _J. Liebgott._

I hear a car coming down the road through the open door behind me. I stare through the hole at the silver trees of the forest. The burning tobacco glows orange as I inhale deeply.

* * *

 _"Father." The word whispers past my lips as I make him out in the shadow of the wall._

 _He is thinner and unshaven. He is still wearing his nightclothes like me, now so dirty that they are nearly unrecognizable. His body huddles heavily against that wall and his chin lolls against his chest. He doesn't look up._

 _A hand lands on my shoulder and begins tugging me over._

 _He still doesn't move, even as we stop near him._

 _"What do you say?" Dr. Mueller's voice asks softly in my ear._

 _The answer comes automatically. I don't even think about it. The words fly out of my mouth on autopilot as the rest of my brain tries to comprehend what has happened to him. I don't even realize what I've said until his head snaps up._

 _"My parents are Jew-loving traitors."_

 _His eyes widen in shock._

 _I gasp._

 _Then I'm being pulled away. "No – "_

 _"Silence, Caroline. Watch what is going to happen."_

 _Father suddenly speaks. "Please don't do this. Don't make her watch."_

 _I can't – I didn't – why did I -_

 _One of the men points a pistol._

 _Dr. Mueller's voice close to my ear again._

 _"Watch, Caroline. Watch what happens to traitors."_

* * *

Greta is predictable. So predictable.

Footsteps pound over the floorboards. Shapes of men fill the peripheral of my vision.

I stub the second cigarette out on the table. I smell Henrich's cologne.

A hand grabs the dog tag and the note. The knuckles turn white.

Someone is yelling at me.

The forest really is beautiful in the moonlight. I don't know why I didn't appreciate it before now.

Something hits the back of my head and my face flies forward.

The last thing I remember is the sound of my nose breaking against the tabletop.

* * *

 _He is dead. I'm being lead back to the room._

 _I want to cry. I want to scream and sob and run away from here. But I can't. My eyes won't cooperate. Everything just feels…empty._

 _Another roll. It is placed on the table. He lingers at the door, watching me. Waiting._

 _I blink._

 _"My parents are Jew-loving traitors."_

 _He smiles once more and exits, softly clicking the door closed behind him._

 _The lock turns and I stay still._

 _The tears never come._

* * *

 **That was the worst, wasn't it?**

 **There is a silver lining though - this is not the end! Please keep the faith!**

 **Maya - thanks for the compliment! And thanks again for the grammar help!**


	31. Chapter 30

"You were lucky this didn't get infected."

Joe looked at the ceiling, not in the mood for one of Roe's lectures. He didn't respond, not trusting himself to speak as the morphine coursed through his system while the medic stitched up the gash in his lower stomach. He had completely forgotten about it during the hasty run to the front line and it wasn't until it oozed through his clean fatigues that he figured it needed stitching. It was the wound the German soldier gave him. In Caroline's house. When he was defending her.

His teeth clamped together and he let out a careful breath.

He didn't know what happened to her after he left. Didn't care. She could still be against that tree for all he gave a damn.

She killed Jews. She didn't have to say it. Her silence was enough.

Goddamn. Even now he had to lock his hands down on the edge of the cot to stop them from balling into fists. It was almost embarrassing how completely head over heels he'd been. Hadn't his past taught him anything? Didn't he know to treat people with a degree of wariness? He had rushed headlong into a love affair with her despite all the red flags warning him what was at stake.

He couldn't even shoot her, even after he realized what she was. That was the true tragedy. Even as his mind put together that she was part of the slaughter, his heart still wouldn't let him pull the fucking trigger. That was disturbing enough that he didn't want to think about it. The fifth of whiskey he drank when he got back helped with that. The hangover he woke with this morning hadn't dampened that conviction.

Fucking Caroline. She completely had him turned around until he was ready to die for her. That took some fucking skill. He thought he was careful. The gash on his stomach proved how deluded he was.

His face hadn't morphed into as much as a grimace since the camp, instead remaining carefully blank. It was all he could do with all the questioning glances everyone was giving him. He had learned his lesson this time. It wasn't going to fucking happen again. He wasn't even going to look at another damn woman after this.

And he was going to fucking stop thinking about her, about how he had felt about her and how sharp the pain that cut through him in that forest clearing was.

As if reading his fucking mind, Roe's voice caught his attention again as he tied off the stitches.

"Is that girl up and about yet? Do I need to check on her?"

He hopped off the cot, tucking his shirt back into his pants and shrugging on his jacket.

"No. She's gone."

And that was going to be the last he said about her.

That part of his life was over. It was time to move on and consider this nothing more than a mistake made because the war was fucking with his mind.

He had other things to take care of.

* * *

Sisk looked up at the stone façade of the ornate house in front of them. "This it?"

"Yup," he supplied, starting up the steps. It had only taken a few carefully worded questions around town to get information on who would know where the _kommandant_ was. Germans in Landsberg were suspicious of the Americans in general and terrified of those who spoke their language.

It was the baker who ultimately gave up what he wanted. Apparently Webster scared the shit out of him at one point. He might take Webster on his next jaunt after this, if things went to plan.

He shoved open the door without knocking, pistol ready in his hand. Sisk followed closely behind with his rifle.

The inside was quiet and seemingly empty. It had been recently ransacked and things were tossed about, clearly picked over by soldiers. As he stepped further into what appeared to be an abandoned house he wondered if the baker had given him a fucking bad address. That asshole –

There was a noise from upstairs, a creak in the floorboards and the sound of someone moving about. Catching a glance from Sisk, he carefully made his way up the large staircase facing them. At the top he found himself at the end of a long hallway, the walls on either side of him paneled with expensive wood. Pieces of things lay on the rug, pieces of the items that had either been taken or destroyed. He stepped over the remnants of a shattered bit of porcelain, a large shard still carrying the swastika marking.

The noise was coming from behind the last door on the left. He motioned to Sisk to follow him and cautiously crept towards who he assumed was the man he was looking for. It would be fucking stupid if his target decided to attack them. Any Nazi who wanted to still fight had cleared the town long before they rolled in, knowing that there was no chance against the numbers of American forces slowly swallowing this part of Bavaria. Still, he kept his pistol in front of him as he shoved open the door.

The man on the other side jumped up from the desk he was sitting at, fountain pen in hand. Joe recognized him immediately; he was in the photo album. A satisfied smirk ghosted across his mouth as he pointed the gun at the fellow's surprised face.

"Sit down."

The man blinked at the German Joe was speaking before gathering his wits back about him. He stood up straighter. "There is nothing left to steal here, I assure you. Your comrades took everything of value yesterday."

"I'm not here for your stuff," Joe responded dismissively. "I told you to sit the fuck down."

Eyes narrowing in a perturbed look, the man slowly sat back in the hard chair by the desk. He was older, with a mustache beginning to go gray, and was wearing a suit instead of a uniform. Besides the broken statue outside, nothing in the sparse room would suggest a Party membership. But even if Joe hadn't seen the photographs there was no hiding the regal bearing and fine cut of his clothing. He had been in the fucking Nazi leadership here. Some sort of governor or mayor. He couldn't remember what the baker exactly said.

The man crossed his legs and leaned back, feigning disinterest. "So what do you want then, if not my possessions?"

The arrogance rankled against Joe's already thin nerves. Sisk shifted next to him, picking up on the tension even though he didn't know what was being said.

"Information," he replied.

"About what?" the man leaned further against the seat back.

"Kaufering." Joe took another look around as he slowly made his way to the desk.

"That camp? I heard about it this morning. What an awful thing." The man didn't even blink.

Joe sucked on his cheeks as heat curdled low in his stomach. In one lighting movement his foot lashed out to strike the base of the chair, shoving it backwards and causing it to tip over. With a surprised cry the man fell, landing roughly on the wooden floor. As he rolled to get up Joe moved forward to plant a boot on his chest, effectively stilling him.

"Don't even attempt to fake ignorance." He growled. "I am only going to give you one chance to answer my questions. Try to lie again and there will be consequences."

"Who the hell are you?" the man gasped as he pushed against Joe's unmoving foot.

Joe didn't acknowledge the question. "You have been there. You knew the _kommandant_. You two _vacationed_ together. So there won't be any more bullshitting, understand?"

The man looked at him for a second, his face turning ashen. "Are you OSS? Come to interrogate me?"

Joe reached down, grabbing his lapel to jerk him to his feet. "That isn't important to you right now. What you need to focus on is what I am about to ask you."

"I don't care. Arrest me if you want. I won't be manhandled like this. If I am to be a prisoner of war then I demand –"

He was cut off by Joe's fist landing on his chin. Sputtering, he fell backward only to be yanked back upright by Joe's grip on his shirt. A thick stream of blood started from his lip.

"You will demand nothing," Joe sneered softly. "And what I doing to you is a minor inconvenience compared to what you have done to the Jews out there. So shut up and listen." With this he released his hold and the man dropped heavily back into the chair. "First question – who is the _kommandant_? What is his name?"

"I don't know."

Joe didn't hesitate. He flipped the pistol he was holding around in his hand and cracked the butt across the man's face. His captive's head lurched to the side, a new wound opening on his temple.

"Do I look like I am playing around to you?" Joe asked, his voice rising. "There are other people who know this besides you. I will not hesitate in killing you before moving on to them. Who. Is. He?"

That mustache was staining red. He choked on the blood from his lip but then, to Joe's surprise, he smiled. "Go fuck yourself."

Another hit. A bruise began to swell the man's eye shut. The skin on Joe's knuckles cracked. As the man caught his breath hatred swirled in the air between them. Mutual hatred.

"I'm never going to tell you," he spit, dropping any attempt to hide his true nature. "Fucking American. I bet you're a Jew too, huh?" His eyes flitted to the name on Joe's uniform. "Liebgott. Fucking Hebrew name – "

Joe didn't give in to the boiling rage that immediately flooded him as the man spouted his anti-sematic nonsense. Instead he shoved it back, making space for the deadness that had been mounting since he came out of those woods. The mire snuffing out what little humanity he thought he had. That he thought he felt towards _her_.

"Sisk, open the window," he calmly ordered. Wayne only hesitated for a moment before going to fumble with the latch. That's why Joe brought him along. Sisk knew what the stakes were. He wasn't going to try to stop whatever was about to happen.

The man stared at Joe's unreadable face as the window panes opened to let the morning sun into the room, maybe confused at Joe's lack of reaction. If only he knew what this impassive expression meant.

Despite Joe's best efforts he thought of her face that moment he started towards her, reaching for the Luger. She knew what this look signified. It telegraphed his intent as clearly as an executioner's noose.

Only she fucking made it out alive.

She would be the _only_ one.

His fist bunched in the man's shirt again, hauling him upward and swinging him towards the open ledge.

"What are you doing?" the Nazi asked, panic leaking through his haughtiness.

"If there is one thing you should know about me it is that I don't play games," Joe answered tonelessly. "I'm not going to waste any more time. You decided to take a gamble and assume that I'm bluffing. Well, you lost." He shoved the man forward, out into the nothingness leading down to the alley about forty feet below. "I don't make promises I don't intend to keep."

That prideful condescension Joe saw when he stepped into the room was now just a ghost of a memory. Now, as the Nazi hung over certain death, that smokescreen splintered away and he gave a frantic scream that echoed off the building's face. His hands clawed at Joe's wrist and his heels desperately dug into the floor, trying to find something to stop gravity from doing its job.

Then the words Joe knew he would hear.

"I'll tell you! Please, God, I'll tell you! Just bring me back in!" The Nazi's eyes rolled in their sockets and blood dripped off his jaw to splatter below.

"His name," Joe commanded, not batting an eye.

"Johann Eichelsdorfer."

"Where is he now?"

The man wavered, looking down at the cobblestones. No one entered the alley. No one to rescue him from this deranged American.

Joe loosened his grip. Another scream as the Nazi dropped another few inches.

"There is a cabin. Near Schondorf. It belonged to his father. He said once –" he coughed again, more blood coming from his lip – "he said that if the Americans ever invaded he would go there and hide out."

Joe studied the man's prostrate form critically, silently judging the reliability of these answers. Blue eyes met Joe's gaze, wordlessly begging to be dragged back inside.

Sisk stepped forward, calmly watching the terrified man. His face was unsympathetic and unkind.

Finally, Joe gave a satisfied nod. The Nazi's relaxed, sighing with relief.

Joe let him linger for one more second. Just to give him a moment of peace. To think that the decision hadn't already been made.

It was made the moment he realized what Kaufering was. The moment he saw this man in those photographs. In uniform, with Eichelsdorfer. In the camp.

He let go, without a warning or a word.

The man's last scream was long and loud.

At least until the end, when it was cut off sharply with a sickening crack.

* * *

"Liebgott!"

He had been making his way to find Webster but veered sharply off course as he spied Malarkey coming towards him. It was so close now. Revenge. Relief from the images of persecuted, emaciated men taunting him. Maybe some catharsis from Caroline. He had a map. He had a good idea of where this cabin was. When the townspeople were ordered to bury the bodies he had his pick of who to interrogate to find out where "the old Echelsdorfer cabin" was. Despite the disgust burying itself bone-deep in his body he held it together when he reentered the camp. He had a mission now. A purpose other than just watching the suffering of his people. That focus saved his sanity more than anything else.

It was a small town. Echelsdorfer had confided in more than just the dead man found in the alley. The civilians were already traumatized by the ugly horror of the bodies around them. He had gotten his answer in record time. Now he just needed a jeep and Webster. Sisk was procuring the former. Joe was still in hot water over his unauthorized use yesterday.

 _"I'm sorry, Joe."_

Fuck.

He tried to get lost in a group of boisterous Fox company men loudly complaining about the movie playing that night but Malarkey collared him nonetheless and dragged him into the company CP at an commandeered home on the edge of the town square.

The inside was empty save for a pile of looted silver sitting just outside the parlor serving as Speirs' quarters and being guarded over by a bored-looking Vest.

Malarkey moved him to a office where they couldn't be heard and looked him up and down, his eyes lingering on the scabs on Joe's knuckles. "What the fuck have you been doing?"

Joe leaned back on his heels, moving his hands behind his back. "Nothing, Sarge."

"Doesn't look like nothing."

Joe worked his jaw. Malarkey was a good man and a good platoon leader. Joe had entrusted Caroline's care to him, after all, before everything went to shit. He had gotten Caroline that bedroom in the battalion HQ. Joe knew Malarkey wouldn't rake him over the coals. But still, he couldn't risk it. If the MPs got to Echelsdorfer first he would be safely locked away with the rest of the leadership to await trial. That wasn't going to fucking happen.

"What the hell happened to Caroline? Roe reported that she was gone, but no one seems to know where to. Winters is asking."

At the mention of her name an involuntary jolt stabbed through him and he pursed his lips. "She decided she would be better off returning home. I gave her a ride to the line. That's the last I saw of her."

Malarkey's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "That's a bunch of bullshit, Joe. Where is she, really? Are you hiding her somewhere? Trying to slip by the rules? I'm not going to have my ass chewed so you can have a piece – "

"She is gone, Malark," he interrupted, his voice tightening. "She wasn't who I thought she was, so we parted ways."

The redhead stared at him a moment longer before understanding suddenly dawned on his face. "Kaufering."

Joe forced his expression to stay composed.

"You sent her back?"

"Yes," he ground out.

"There might be another offensive. We don't know how many units are still defending that village. Are you sure you want her to go through that?"

A strange tugging in his belly warred with his instinctive _yes_. He wanted her to suffer. Just like the Jews she had murdered. Even if he loved her -

Shit. He stopped that train of thought right here. He didn't fucking care. She probably hadn't gone back to that house anyway. She could be anywhere by now.

 _She was a murderer_.

He gave a noncommittal shrug. "Nothing I can do about it now."

"You were pretty attached to her."

Joe grit his teeth. "Ah, you know how it is. When is the last time we got some female company around here? Fraternization got the better of me."

Malarkey nodded thoughtfully, still watching him. "How are you holding up?"

"Fine." His hands squeezed together behind his back.

He didn't come across as believable and Malarkey rubbed his eyes in frustration before looking sharply at Joe again. "A man was found dead this morning in town. It looks like he was thrown out of a window. Some sort of Nazi officer."

"That's a damn shame." He gave it his damndest, but he just couldn't sound regretful.

"A local is saying an American was asking around this morning about the camp commandant. Apparently the man directed the soldier to the victim's house. He said the American was tall with brown hair. Spoke German."

"Really? Did he get a name?" Joe didn't blink as he caught on to what Malarkey was doing and played along.

"No."

He rocked on his feet. "Eh, well, that's terrible luck. I mean," his face dipped into a frown, pretending to be in thought, "a German-speaking American soldier who fucking hates Nazis. Could be anyone."

"Right," Malarkey said carefully as he looked out of the office. There was still only Vest out there, flipping through a pack of dirty playing cards and clearly not paying attention. "My question, though, is why out the window? Someone must have really hated him. It was personal."

"Maybe it was," Joe confirmed.

"Like he worked at the camp or something. It must have been really bad."

"That sounds about right."

"I hope he had some sort of proof, though, before he killed the guy." Malarkey was looking imploring now, like he was hoping to God Joe hadn't completely lost his mind at that camp.

Joe wet his lips. "I would bet that he did. You wouldn't do something like that without being sure."

With those words relief dropped Malarkey's shoulders and Joe relaxed into his stance, the strain between them suddenly draining. He knew Malark was one of the good ones. Pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket, he offered one to his sergeant. They shared a light.

"What sort of proof, I wonder?" Malarkey asked as he blew away a puff of smoke.

"Probably some photographs. The Nazis take pictures of fucking everything."

Malarkey's hand froze halfway to his mouth. "Are you shitting me?"

Joe shrugged again. "I dunno. You'll have to ask the guy, if they catch him."

"I don't think they will. Winters isn't terribly concerned about a dead Nazi."

Joe took a drag. "What if other dead ones show up? Do you think he will then?"

"I guess it depends on how many," Malarkey replied warily, looking at Joe suspiciously again.

There was the sound of the front door opening and they both went quiet. Some runner giving a message to Vest. There was the mumble of soft words and the door shut again.

"Well, this soldier was asking about the commandant, right? Maybe he got the info he wanted," Joe continued.

The sergeant inhaled deeply on the cigarette. "Maybe," he agreed softly before going quiet. They finished the Luckies in silence. Was Malarkey going to try to stop him?

Joe crushed the butt into the ash tray on the desk, watching the other man.

"I would think," Malarkey said finally, "that this soldier would have just as much proof about the commandant as well."

Joe took a breath. "He likely does."

"And that son of a bitch would certainly deserve it after what he's done. This soldier probably doesn't believe that the normal due process is going to give this guy the justice he deserves."

"You might be right." Joe's thoughts darkened. The picture was burning a hole in his pocket.

"The soldier should be concerned about his commanding officer finding out about it, though, now that word has spread. He would need to keep it quiet."

"After the problems the first guy caused, it might be that no one ever finds out what happens to this commandant."

Malarkey blinked and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Then I can't imagine Winters concerning himself about it, especially if he doesn't find out."

They shared a meaningful look and Joe gave a nod. "Thanks for the talk, Malark."

The redhead nodded and looked towards Vest again, satisfied that everyone in the room could claim total ignorance.

The room had one window that looked out over the street. Looking through it, he saw Sisk maneuvering through the crowd in a jeep. They still needed to find fucking Webster. He moved to take his exit when Malarkey's hand shot out, grabbing the arm of his jacket and pulling him close.

"Be back before dark," he said quietly and seriously in Joe's ear. "No one gets hurt, no one gets killed. And this is it, Joe. When you get back I don't want you leaving your bunk until morning chow. Get some rest."

Joe would need to find another bottle of whiskey. A night of lying awake in the dark thinking about _her_ was not something he was inclined to do and getting blinding drunk seemed to work last time.

"Understood, Sarge."

* * *

"Liebgott, I hate this."

"Oh, Jesus Christ." Bringing Web along turned out to be a big fucking mistake. Whatever menace he held with the baker had dissolved into a wishy washy-ness about rules and courts, all wrapped up in grandiose terminology from Harvard or Yale or what-the-fuck ever Ivy League school he never graduated from. Joe stopped listening for the most part when " _habeus corpus"_ came out of his mouth shortly after Joe told him about the mission. Webster refused to take Joe's word on Echelsdorfer's guilt and wanted to bring the man in to hand him over to Nixon for questioning. Joe briefly thought about telling him to forget about it and finding someone else, but ultimately decided that he didn't want gossip about what he was doing to get around. Malark could catch a shitstorm. The fewer people who knew the better. So he finally told Webster that he was ordered to go find this man and question him personally.

Webster didn't believe him. But he came anyways. Maybe he fooled himself into thinking Echelsdorfer was going to live. That Joe was honestly going to ask him a few questions and arrest him.

Joe had all the answers he needed. Echelsdorfer wasn't going to fucking leave Joe's sight alive.

He climbed out of the Jeep with Sisk, leaving Web to stew in the backseat.

The cabin sat on the crest of a hill, the grass around it green with spring. A trail of white smoke came from the chimney, telling Joe the fucker was home. The sky was bright blue and the sun was warm for once. If it weren't for the war criminal hiding inside the entire scene would be a picture fit for a fucking postcard.

Footsteps ran up beside him. Webster had decided to join them.

"Is this a personal thing, Joe?"

Goddammit. He should have stayed in the jeep. "What?"

Webster's gaze was accusing. "Is this personal to you? Does it have anything to do with that German girl that left you so upset? Caroline, right?"

Joe ground his teeth. He didn't want Webster, or anyone else for that matter, to say her fucking name.

"No," he said coldly. "It's a goddamn order."

"Does Major Winters know about this?"

 _Such_ a fucking mistake. He almost chuckled at his own foolishness. He chose the worst fucking person for this. Even that greenhorn Lieutenant Jones would have been better.

He continued walking towards the cabin. "Doesn't matter."

"The _fuck_ it doesn't," Webster countered. "What if this guy is just a soldier? What if he's an officer with no ties to the _SS_? What if he's innocent?"

Web didn't know about the photograph; Caroline's smiling face was something too personal that Joe couldn't bring himself to share yet. But he shouldn't need to. Sisk came along with no questions. They were Toccoa men and were supposed to follow each other to hell and back but fucking Webster –

"You know what?" he stopped, turning towards the other man and letting his fury leak through his tightly controlled exterior. "What if he's a fucking Nazi commandant of a fucking slave camp?"

"Which one? Which camp? You –" Web poked his finger into Joe's chest and Joe fought the urge to snap it off, "- don't have any proof."

Joe's anger turned up a notch. Webster was a fucking coward.

"Where you at Landsberg?" he asked.

Webster stiffened. "You know I was."

Joe looked him up and down scathingly. "You think he's a soldier like you and me? Fucking innocent German officer?"

Webster gave in under the pressure of Joe's gaze, turning away with a huff.

Joe pressed onward, nailing home his point. "Where the hell have you been for the past three years?"

 _In a hospital in England_. He didn't have to say those words. Webster knew them. He knew he would never be forgiven for skipping Bastogne, Bois Jacques, and Foy.

He didn't bother see if Webster followed him as he made his way down the rest of the path.

Reaching the door he paused for a moment, listening. It was silent inside.

The weather beaten wood gave way easily under his boot, swinging open to reveal the small interior. A man stood by the stove. He whirled towards them, knocking a bowl to the floor.

Echelsdorfer.

It was him. Fat, healthy Echelsdorfer.

He looked scared.

Good.

"Who are you? Why are you here?"

"What?" Joe responded in English, playing dumb for the moment.

"Get out of my house!"

"Shut up." Webster and Sisk checked the rest of the space. They were alone.

"Whoever you are looking for isn't here!"

"Shut up," Joe repeated, this time in German as he looked around. The place wasn't fancy but it was comfortable. Still loads better than what this fucker gave the Jews. Even better than what Caroline had.

He rounded on the man. "Are you the _kommandant_?"

"Get out!"

" _Are you_ the _kommandant_?"

The man's expression didn't change. "The _kommandant_? Of what?"

It was a shitty lie. "You know what."

The man persisted. " _Kommandant_ of what? I have no idea what you are talking about."

Fucking prick. Joe faintly heard the door shut behind him as he grabbed the front of the man's shirt. Good. He wanted to be alone with this asshole.

He shoved Echelsdorfer into a chair. "Don't fucking lie to me."

"I have no idea – "

 _Goddammit_. Fuck this shit. This man had caused the deaths of thousands of Jews and was now fucking holed up in this cabin boiling potatoes or some shit. And he wanted to sit there denying it all to Joe's face, as if Joe hadn't fucking been there. As if Joe had just decided to pick this fucking random guy –

"Do you know what you did to my _fucking people_?" With the words came the image, once again, of that man sobbingly telling him that it was the Jews that were persecuted.

That Jews had been systematically executed for fucking _years._

The blackness that had been swirling deep within him exploded at that moment and hot rage swept through him like lava in his veins. This fucking war. Fucking Nazis. Fucking Caroline. _His people_.

He wanted to be emotionless during this. He wanted to dispatch this man as coldly and efficiently as he did the other one this morning. But as he stared at that unremorseful, deceitful face he was fucking finished with trying to control himself. With trying to keep it together when being lied to _again_.

 _"I'm sorry, Joe."_

He kept yelling. Maybe in German, maybe in English. His pistol was in his hand. He saw the barrel press into the Nazi's face. But he couldn't feel anything except that uncontrolled… agony? Pain? Anger?

Maybe all three.

"I don't know – " Still more _stupid_ ignorance.

His hand dove into his pocket for that picture that was already creased and tattered from the many times he had looked at it over the past day and a half. He shoved it in Echelsdorfer's face.

There was a beat of silence. Then the man gasped, paling, as he saw his own face looking back at him. Joe's finger closed around the trigger. "Still want to deny it, you asshole?"

Echelsdorfer blinked. "Please, I beg of you, don't kill me."

The plea only made Joe angrier. At least Caroline had the dignity to accept her fate. He reared back, glaring daggers at the _kommandant_. That admission was enough. It was time. He had what he wanted. In one brief moment the rage was replaced by a deep coldness that crept down his arm holding the gun. Welcome, protective ice. It shielded him from the pain of Caroline's betrayal as easily as it stopped him from feeling any sympathy for the condemned man in front of him. He didn't know mercy. He didn't know compassion. He had nothing left inside him except the ice and the burning need for vengeance. His mind went blank, refusing to attempt to process any further excruciating thoughts about his predicament. His broken heart. His continued disengagement from his own sanity.

Maybe she had actually driven him crazy. He had given her everything – even things he didn't know he even possessed – and she had destroyed it all.

Echelsdorfer began pleading louder, bringing Joe's focus back to what he had come here to do.

His eyes narrowed dangerously at the same time Echelsdorfer realized that what he was saying was making no difference.

The Nazi reached for the gun just as Joe pulled the trigger. In the earsplitting explosion Echelsdorfer ducked and blood splattered over both of them. The man pitched forward, grabbing at his neck.

Fuck.

He was still alive.

Joe raised the gun again, but suddenly Echelsdorfer was sprinting towards him. He let out a grunt as the larger man threw a shoulder into his gut, making him double over. As he blocked out the pain and straightened, he saw the _kommandant's_ bulky form disappear out the door. _Son of a fucking bitch._

He snarled, giving chase.

Outside, the world was still warm and bright. Squinting, he saw Echelsdorfer making for the woods up the hill. He was stuck out in the open and Joe felt a grim measure of relief as he aimed again.

 _Click._

The gun was jammed. _Fucking_ jammed.

"Son of a bitch," he heard himself say as he pulled on the slide. It didn't give. Web was coming up beside him, looking bewildered. "Shoot him."

Webster didn't do a fucking thing. Joe watched helplessly as his target's figure grew smaller.

Echelsdorfer couldn't –

He couldn't get away.

 _He couldn't fucking live_.

 _The Jews_ -

"SHOOT HIM!" Joe screamed at Web, who still did nothing but fucking stand there. His head swiveled back around to Echelsdorfer. He would have to give chase. He would have to finish the job with his knife. Then he would have to fucking punch the shit out of Web.

The crack of a rifle broke through the still clearing. A hole opened up in the back of the Nazi's sweater and he instantly went limp, falling to ground and sliding a few feet with the last of his momentum.

Joe watched, frozen.

Sisk lowered his rifle.

The sun pounded down on them, suddenly burning hot.

Nobody moved, included the collapsed man.

Dead.

The _kommandant_ was dead.

Joe stared at the body for a long time.

* * *

 **Sigh, another depressing chapter. I hope no one is turned off by Joe's behavior - it's apparent in the series that he became a little unhinged after the camp and I figured adding a dimension like Caroline would push him almost over the edge. I didn't enjoy writing him this way, which is why this chapter is, once again, late. I'm finding it hard to do terrible things to my characters!**

 **Obviously, I had no idea what was actually being said between the Liebgott and the Nazi in the cabin, so forgive me for any inaccuracies in that exchange :) Also, I know the cabin in the series is in Austria, but I needed to keep Joe around Landsberg so I had to move it. Apologies!**

 **Guests - thanks for the reviews! They made my day!**


	32. Chapter 31

**So. Another depressing-ass chapter. I got writer's block so many times writing this, so I apologize that I'm behind schedule again. I will try to pick up the pace, but it may be that the rest of the story is like this. There are a lot of things I would change about earlier chapters, so I am trying to slow down and write more carefully nowadays. Anyway, please enjoy if you aren't totally depressed yet. I do think that this will be the lowest point of the plot, so onward and upward!**

 **Guest - Sorry for the wait! An extra long chapter is below, so I hope it is worth it!**

 **Oml - Welcome to the story :)**

 **Maya - I was hoping Joe's actions were coming across as rational in the context of the story events and his mindset. I certainly didn't want to turn him into an American version of Henrich. Thanks for the feedback; I really appreciate your opinion!**

* * *

 _Who is Caroline? The lonely twelve year old girl who made friends with a dying Jew?_

 _Or the test subject who feels nothing but distant detachment from the disintegrating world around her?_

 _Maybe Caroline is dead. In her place is this empty mold waiting to be filled with whatever Dr. Mueller decides. Nameless, shapeless, emotionless._

 _The weather is hot and humid and a line of sweat is gathering above his mustache as we drive through the woods. The leather of the car seat sticks to the back of my thighs and I shift uncomfortably but don't complain. The perspiration gathers under the gauze still lining my legs, making the scabs itch._

 _I lean my forehead against the glass. The trees march by outside, making the sun blink across my face._

 _Father is dead. I don't know where Mother is._

 _I look down at my new uniform. It looks like Henrich's._

 _"Sit up straight, Caroline. There will be no more slouching."_

 _I do, my finger going towards my mouth._

 _"And you will stop biting your nails. This is your last warning._ _If you don't stop you'll be punished. Our Fuhrer only wants those who are perfect."_

 _My hand drops to my lap._

 _Perhaps I did want the Jews to be discovered. Maybe I did know it was wrong to betray the Fuhrer._

 _My head aches. It hurts constantly, it seems._

 _Maybe Anne did trick me._

 _But…_

 _Dr. Mueller says they are lying and deceitful. I need to stop thinking otherwise._

 _I need to…_

 _Stop. I don't want to be put back in that room._

 _"You are going to enjoy the camp," he tells me, smiling. "There are going to be kids your own age to play with. Your friend, Henrich, will be there too."_

 _Henrich. My stomach wants to turn but I just look out the window instead. You have to go along, Caroline. You have to believe if you are going to survive this._

 _Besides the Jews… The Jews were…_

 _What did the books say?_

 _The pain gets worse. I tug at the edges of my skirt, staring at the passing trees._

 _I don't want to be a traitor. I don't want to be shot. Like…_

 _My eyes close tightly. Lightheaded._

 _My parents are Jew-loving traitors._

 _The car slows and my eyes fly back open. The gravel drive ends in a large field dotted with wooden buildings. In the center is a large flagpole and a Totenkopf flag drifting in the weak breeze._

 _As we come closer I see a gathering of people around the pole. Boys and girls. They look my age. They are lined up in perfect rows and they wait motionlessly as we stop, sweltering in the stifling heat._

 _Henrich is one of them. He doesn't move his gaze towards me, instead staring straight ahead._

 _I stay glued to my seat as Dr. Mueller climbs out. On an invisible cue the group clicks its heels together, raising their right arms high._

 _"Heil Hitler!" The words are a singular chorus, shouted at a deafening volume. I slink back from the window. Dr. Mueller returns the greeting and opens the door. I don't fight him as he pulls me out._

 _"Your education starts today. It's time to teach you how to be a true German."_

* * *

 _It is so hot. My heart feels like it was going to explode. Gravel crunching under my feet._

 _Henrich runs next to me. We are far behind everyone else. I see them in the distance, in formation._

 _"Stop and you fail. Failure is reserved for those who have no use for the Fuhrer," he yells at me._

 _We've been up since before dawn. Every day is the same unending torture. Physical conditioning, instruction, more physical conditioning, and sessions with Dr. Mueller. Exhaustion consumes my waking moments. It leaves little room for anything else and I move mechanically through the succession of burning days and relentless pain._

 _I'm faster now than when I came here. It doesn't matter. I'm not fast enough. The others are waiting for me at the flagpole and when Henrich and I reach them I don't have to be told what to do. Being last is becoming as familiar as the sunburns on my face and constant stitch in my side in these few weeks. Being last is not acceptable._

 _Heaving air, I crouch to rest my knees on the gravel made boiling by the unrelenting sun. The burning, sharp rocks dig into the wounds from yesterday's punishment but I keep my face straight. Henrich stares silently beside me, shaking his head at my failure once again._

 _I sit there until the sky turns violet with evening. Blood from my kneecaps puddles against the stark white ground. I'm not the only one with gouges carved into their knees._

 _Being last is not acceptable for any of us._

 _It is Dr. Mueller who finally retrieves me. As I struggle to make my aching joints move he stands by impassively, looking at the flag that is lit up like a beacon in the dying sunlight. The eternally grinning skull is limp in the unmoving air, frozen in silent laughter._

 _"Do you know what Herr Himmler says about the Totenkopf?" he asks, his figure fading in the creeping night._

 _Of course I don't. I focus on keeping my burning, bloody knees straight and not let the rising urge to sob take over. I want to go home._

 _Dr. Mueller is unperturbed by my silence. "'The Skull is the reminder that you shall always be willing to put yourself at stake for the life of the whole community.'" He turns to me, his hands clasped behind his back. "Do you know why you aren't excelling here?"_

 _I shake my head, balling my own trembling hands in the fabric of my shorts as I finally stand at attention, the skin of my knees ruined._

 _"I think it is because you are not a believer yet. You still hold out hope that things will go back to the way they were, that this will eventually end."_

 _He pauses. A mosquito buzzes in my ear. I don't dare slap at it._

 _"You don't yet realize that this is your new life. You betrayed your family to us and now what you knew is gone. But in its place I have bestowed upon you a great gift. You still think it is a curse."_

 _I don't give away if he is right or not. I'm not sure myself. He nods to himself and steps closer, that flag rising up behind his head as I watch him._

 _"You gave them away for a reason, Caroline. You didn't make a mistake. They didn't die because you were foolish."_

 _I don't want to talk about this._

 _"They died because you know what is right and what is wrong. You knew you weren't supposed to go to Anne's room but you did anyway. You could have closed the curtains but you didn't. You should congratulate yourself for not falling for the Jews' tricks. In the end you saved yourself. That is why you are here."_

 _My hands are clenched so tightly they ache. The Jews are dead and it is my fault. That guilt has felt like a boulder being dragged with every step I take._

 _"So there is no reason to beat yourself up. You have a seed inside you, one that guided you to make the decisions you made. My job is to turn that seed into a beautiful flower that will bring glory to our Fuhrer. I want to do this, but you have to let me. You are probably scared and exhausted. Lonely, I imagine, as well. Everything here must be overwhelming. But I see the potential in you. I believe that one day you will see the truth in Herr Himmler's words and know that the sacrifices you make here are for the greater good. For the good of Germany herself. Do you understand what I am saying?"_

 _"Yes, sir," I gulp._

 _"The others have already figured this out. They know that their individuality must be sacrificed for the whole of the group. That is how they function so well. That is why you are still an outsider. Granted, they volunteered for this program, but I know if you let go of who Caroline is and allow us the opportunity to show you who Caroline_ can _be then there is no reason why you can't beat them. No reason you can't be the fastest, smartest, most capable candidate here."_

 _He steps even closer and my breath catches in my chest. Blood is running down my shins to soak my socks._

 _"But you have to do it, Caroline. Let go. Make no mistake, this isn't going to be easy. I will break you. That is the only way you can be reborn. You must be demolished first. Become less than human. Can you?"_

 _My voice croaks in my throat. "I'll try."_

 _He hand stretches out, his fingers closing tightly around the nape of my neck. I hiss in pain and he yanks my face close to his. His expression remains blankly stoic. "Wrong answer Caroline. How far do we have to go until you are loyal to your Fuhrer? Keep 'trying' and you will find out. There is no 'trying' here. Only doing."_

 _His hold stops me from nodding so I manage a strained "Yes, sir." He looks me over one more time, his eyes unreadable. In the distance the faint ring of the dinner bell sounds from the mess hall. I am released suddenly and Dr. Mueller steps away from me, looking as though he never moved at all. "Eat a good dinner and get a full night's rest. Tomorrow will be an easier day, I promise. Just like today was easier than yesterday."_

 _I wobble, recovering my balance. He watches keenly from beneath the brim of his cap. Taking my cue, I snap my heels together and raise my arm in salute._

 _"Heil Hitler!"_

 _He returns the motion, a slow smile stretching under his mustache._

* * *

"Everyone is being pulled back. I'm sure our orders are going to come down the pipe soon."

"He is supposed to be here by evening. He probably won't stay – "

I lift my head off the table, my cheek peeling from the dried puddle of blood. Things are at once loud and bright, a confusing blur that for a moment is nauseatingly incomprehensible. The talking stops.

My brain feels like it is stuffed with cotton and my palms scrape against the rough wood of the tabletop as I push myself upward. Every movement sends daggers of pain careening through my bones and a groan nearly escapes from my swollen mouth. Blinking the grit from my eyes as I come upright, I try to inhale through my nose. Nothing but more pain. Breathless, I look around.

I'm at the school, in one of the old classrooms. A blackboard is mounted on the wall to my right, the last lesson still faintly visible in the chalk dust. I roll my head to look to the left, the muscles in my neck protesting. A window, too high and too small to squeeze through, marks the brick wall.

I'm not tied down. The door is behind me. I…

The gears in my mind slowly pick up speed, flooding with the sudden memory of what has happened and why I am here. Joe's agonized face flashes behind my eyes.

No – I… There – there is… no escape. Not for me.

Not this time.

I gulp in air, slowly falling against the back of the chair. Joe. I'm – they found…

I sluggishly direct my gaze to the man waiting patiently in front of me.

Henrich sits across the table, looking unimpeachable in his uniform. Some man is beside him, also SS but someone I've never met. They both focus on me. I wipe my face with the back of my arm and dark blood flakes onto my blouse.

Joe's dog tag is between Henrich's fingertips, tapping steadily on the wood in the deceiving calm of the room. Watching me closely, he drops it on the table with a sharp click before reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out the slip of paper I saved. I follow his movements and as the last of the fog clears I steady myself against what I am going to hear. Without preamble he starts to translate.

"To the American soldier who has been given this note," he begins, pronouncing every word loudly and succinctly as if they taste foul in his tongue. "I was injured and trapped behind enemy lines from March 20th until just before this battle. The woman who gave you this is named Caroline Alsbach. She treated my injuries and offered me shelter until I could return to my unit. She is not a supporter of the enemy and does pose any threat to you. She also does not speak English. Please help her stay safe until I can return to retrieve her."

The ball of sorrow in my chest tightens into an aching knot more unbearable than any physical wound. I grip the sides of my chair tightly in response. Joe. God, _Joe._

"Signed," he finishes, "Joseph Liebgott, SN 18078096, T/5 E Company, 2nd Battalion, 506th PIR."

I don't say anything.

Henrich carefully folds the paper in half and places it on the table next to the tag. He crosses his hands leisurely in his lap, regarding me. "You've really outdone yourself this time, Caroline."

The room is cold. The lights are bright. It is all achingly familiar. I wonder what information they think they can get from me. I stare at Henrich blankly, watching as his expression hardens.

"He was here, what, five days?"

Nothing. My face is pounding with pain. Henrich gives a chilling smile.

"Trying the silent treatment again? Because that worked so well last time we were doing this."

Everything is different now.

I wish I was dead already.

"You hid him for five days. I was there, Greta was there, and Herr Schueller was there. Not one of us suspected that a fucking American was stowed somewhere on your property. I admit we trusted you too much. We got complacent. But I have to admire your achievement in betraying us, your country, and your Fuhrer even more thoroughly than you did before."

Self-righteous prick. Everything hurts. I just want him to get on with it. I need to –

Shifting in my chair, I close the space between us. I don't blink. "And I would do it again."

My words are lisped by a split lip I got somewhere on the way here. Surprise crosses his face and his friend takes a step in my direction.

"Not remorseful at all, are you?" he spits.

The slow shake of my head makes it feel like my brain is sloshing against my skull, but I keep my stare on him. "How can I be? I was always an opportunist. The writing is on the wall. The Americans are going to kill you all."

He smirks. "Is that what you think?"

Mirroring the expression, I lean further over the table. "Isn't that why the Fuhrer is hiding in a bunker in Berlin like a coward?"

The words feel foreign coming out of me, my baser instincts screaming to backtrack and instead repeat the rote words trained into me those years ago. But I shove them aside, letting go of the notion that I needed to please the monster in front of me and knowing that the worst consequences of my actions are exactly what I want.

For a beat Henrich's expression goes slack with shock, my sudden behavior as extraordinary to him as to me. "What did you say?" he growls.

"I said," my voice growing stronger in my aching throat, "that Adolf Hitler is a pathetic failure and every one of you is going to get a bullet in the back of the head."

The look on his face is horrified and for one ridiculous instant I want to laugh at him. I want to deride him for his foolish fantasy that victory was ours, his absolute brainwashing that he was somehow superior, and his stupid fucking uniform that he never takes off.

I can barely crack a smile before his partner darts towards me, landing a blow to my already destroyed face. My train of thought shatters and slips towards the void, making everything go black and silent for a terrifying second before the room slowly comes back into focus. My cheek throbs. Something feels broken.

"That American gave you quite an attitude," Henrich intones as I pull myself back straight in the chair, trying to blink the tears from my eyes. "The doctor isn't going to like that." It's a warning.

I see my next opportunity. My lip has reopened I spit the blood onto the table. "Who gives a shit what he thinks?"

The other officer circles in again, this time on my other side. As his knuckles make another bone snap somewhere in my face I feel myself letting go of the chair, sliding to the cold floor. A wave of sickness makes everything swim and I cough more redness onto the pristine white tiles. My lungs scream for air and there is a shudder that courses through my limbs. I force my frozen diaphragm to move, sucking in a breath through my mouth.

Violent hands haul my body back upright, throwing me back into the chair. I choke as the unforgiving wood slams into my back, ripping at the old stitches there.

Henrich doesn't move as my sputtering slowly eases into uneven gulps in the unwavering quiet. Warm wetness is seeping across my numb face and dripping onto my clothes. He picks up the note again, smoothing it out against the table to study it.

"It says here that he is coming back to 'retrieve' you." He makes a face as his eyes skim over the words, his lip curling back to bare his teeth. "Did you two form some sort of… attachment?"

Air whistles in and out of my mouth. This is agony. I just want it to be over. As his hateful glare looks up from the paper to pin on me I make a final decision. Through all of our time together Henrich never outgrew his complete lack of empathy and his formidable, hair trigger temper. Even as we sit now I can almost hear the faint tick of the bomb waiting to go off inside him – one that would cause him to do terrible things without another thought. Even Joe's temper never reached the brutality of what Henrich could do. Although he has always been fixated on me in his own twisted way, if Henrich had been in those woods instead I would have a 9mm hole in my forehead.

Then again, Joe was still a human being. Henrich could never reach that level of decentness which is why as I sit here, trying to breathe through the pain of my abused face, I know the quickest path to my own suicidal end.

"I love him."

Henrich goes very still. As every viciously honest word rings between us, oxygen is sucked from the chamber until only my bruised body and his unyielding gaze are left locked in a vacuum. My heart rattles against my protesting ribs, adrenaline making me feel like I just pushed the handle of a detonator and all that is left is to wait for the fatal explosion. Even his lackey backs up a step, his head turning to watch the both of us stare at each other.

"Oh really?" Henrich sneers into the silence, the burning fuse apparent in his soft words. "You love him after five days?"

I take a breath, delivering the next blow in a steady voice despite by burning lip. "Those five days were better than the ten years spent with you."

His ice blue gaze chills the space between us and a painful shiver works up my spine. "Well, where the fuck is he then?" he asks sarcastically, sweeping his arms around like Joe could be hiding in a corner. "Seems like he left you without a second thought. Do you really think you were more than just cheap entertainment? How disappointing."

I don't think about why Joe isn't here. I don't think about what Henrich is implying. Henrich's opinion became completely irrelevant to me the moment Joe's lips first met mine. Even though what Joe and I had is over, the memories I have are too precious to be sullied by someone as inconsequential as a sadistic Nazi peon.

I smile with one half of my face. The other half is nothing but a painful tingle. As he sees my expression the note crumples in his fist. "Maybe, but I enjoyed every second of it."

The table shudders as Henrich's fist slams down on it. Miserably, I know this just what I want. I lean forward again, pressing on that insecurity that is going to elicit his temper as assuredly as if Joe bursts through the door right this second.

"You can't compare Henrich. If you met him he wouldn't hesitate to kill you single handedly as he did Schueller's men. You and your friend here wouldn't have a chance –"

"Let me tell you something about your _boyfriend_." Henrich's face is growing red as he snatches the tag. He shoves it in my face. "You see that H next to Religion? You what that means? Jewish. He was a fucking Jew, Caroline."

I don't look at the tag. I don't hesitate. Still keeping that gleeful smile on my face, I go in for the final strike. "I know. Let's just say if you possessed half the _skills_ he did I might have actually been interested in marrying you."

I only got the barest of taste of those skills, but that doesn't matter. Resignedly, I watch the color bleed from his face, the muscles in his arms tense, and his gaze go forebodingly black. Every hair on my body stands on end as I watch, knowing the only time I had seen this before was before he shed blood.

My only warning a sharp intake of breath before he pounces. I clamp down onto the sides of the chair and his friend jumps back as the table goes flying, clattering to the floor with an ear splitting crack. Then I'm being shoved back, his hands biting into my arms. Like a predator toying with prey he stops short, his violence pausing just as abruptly as it started. My pulse pounds frantically in my ears as he slowly bends until his eyes are level with mine. I don't waver as his face comes alarmingly close, his breath hitting me in harsh waves. His anger consumes the air around us, thundering alarmingly with ominous promise.

"You slept with him?" he questions, almost in a whisper. Ringing fills my ears.

I lick my lips. They taste metallic and acrid. "He was better than you in _every_ way."

His face contorts with rage and I don't try to avoid the blow that knocks the chair over. Hot, suffocating blood fills my mouth and my head ricochets against the hard floor. Blackness crowds in closer, tantalizingly promising peace.

Stooping over me, he reaches down to grip my jaw with crushing strength, yanking my face over to look at him. Pain explodes under his fingers and I struggle to breathe past his grip.

"You're mine," he growls menacingly. "Mine."

"I can't even look at you without _hating_ you," I wheeze in return.

He lets go of me, throwing me back against the floor. "Hold her arm out," he tells his companion.

The blood is filling my throat. I gag and it leaks onto the ground next to me. My left arm stretched straight, held against the floor with my wrist up.

Henrich straddles my middle, pulling a knife from his belt. His eyes are wide and crazed, the careful veneer holding him together destroyed. "You aren't ever going to forget me, Caroline. I'll make sure you are mine forever."

I can't hold back my scream as he cuts into my flesh.

* * *

 _The first snow of the season falls gently outside the window._

 _"We were beaten. Made laughing stock of the entire world by Britain and France. Who returned us to glory? Who gave us back our respect?"_

 _"Our Fuhrer, sir," the class chimes in response._

 _"Who is your enemy?"_

 _"Britain."_

 _"And?"_

 _"Amerika."_

 _Standing at the rear of the class room, he is watching. I feel his eyes burning into the back of my head as I shout my answers at the instructor with everyone else._

 _"Who is your leader?"_

 _"Mien Fuhrer."_

 _"Who are the disgraces to this nation?"_

 _"Judentum."_

 _I look out at the building snow. We would be running later, regardless of how cold it gets. I'm no longer last. The soft curves of childhood have wasted away under the grinding months, replaced with hard muscle._

 _"What do we have to do?"_

 _"Kill them!"_

 _I don't have to kneel at the flagpole any longer but the passing days are no more enjoyable. Why did Anne have to take my bedroom? Why couldn't she been sick in the basement? Why did my parents put us at such a risk?_

 _If it weren't for them I wouldn't be here now._

 _"Will you sacrifice your lives for your Fuhrer?_

 _"With death comes greatness. With death comes honor. Heroes are those who die for the Fuhrer!"_

 _If it weren't…_

 _They…_

 _Did I make the right decisions then? Did I know what I was doing? Maybe this awful guilt is –_

 _Unnecessary._

 _"When will you stop fighting?"_

 _"Never!"_

 _The doctor's gaze grows heavier on my back._

* * *

I'm still alive.

Consciousness returns in drips of awareness. Pain comes first, throbbing mercilessly through every cell in my body. Fire burns in my left arm and a piercing ache courses through my face. It is paralyzing and choking and as sounds slowly start weaving back into my grasp as well I only hear my own ragged breathing. The taste of ash is on my tongue, the flavor of smoke like the cigarettes I tried.

Only it's different. It's not Joe's.

Unlike everything else my vision comes back suddenly and resolutely. I jerk upright, finding myself back in the chair.

My arm.

Jagged cuts. A word. _Meine._

… _Meine._

It feels like the floor is moving, swaying like an ocean wave bobbing the chair. Blood pulses in my ears. The walls bow inward, pushing the air from the room. I can't breathe. My heart thumps painfully in my chest. I can't –

Faintly, someone is talking.

 _Meine._

Focus. I'm going to pass back out. Focus on the voice. I need to distract myself. I rip my gaze away from the bloody mess, rising my head to look across from me.

Dr. Mueller.

He smiles.

I blink, long and slow. Dr. Mueller is still there when I focus my eyes again. He isn't an apparition. He is really here, watching me with his lifeless eyes.

"You almost did it, you know," he says, taking a long inhale on his cigarette and lounging as languidly as Henrich did. The table has been moved back between us, leaning and splintered

Henrich. Dizziness makes my stomach flip as I whip my head around.

He isn't here.

I look to Dr. Mueller again. The last two years have not been kind to either of us. The mustache is still there, neat and trimmed, but the man behind it is thinner, his skin bled of color, and the lines around his eyes marked with stress.

The silence extends. My mouth won't cooperate. The muscles of my face are frozen in broken misery. He taps his cigarette on the table, leaving a dusting of ash. The wood is stained red with my blood.

"Luckily I got here in time to stop Henrich from beating you to death. That boy always had the inability to control himself, when it comes down to it. He is useful to me in many ways, but his temper has always been the biggest disappointment."

He rolls the butt of the cigarette between his fingertips.

"But that is what you were counting on, wasn't it?"

I try to speak but my lungs squeeze painfully instead and I dissolve into a coughing fit. Blood from places I can't mark splatters on the already dirtied table.

His chair scrapes back and he circles the table, leaning his hip on it as he reaches me.

"Poor, Caroline," he tsks. "I really thought you learned your lesson. I thought that what happened at Kaufering was just an aberration. I'll have to say I was wrong, won't I?"

I heave in air, not able to look at him any longer. Where Henrich is rage and fire Dr. Mueller is manners and cool tranquility. It is seductive, his calm reason. There is a tugging in my air and I realize that he is running his fingers through it. A shudder rocks through me with every stroke.

"I asked you once how far I would have to go until you finally gave in. At the time it seemed that just the mere question was enough – you turned yourself around quite quickly. So what changed between then and now? Why do you still defy what is best for you?"

He pauses a beat, as if I could answer. His hand drops from my hair and pushes off the table to circle behind me.

"Henrich tells me that you are in love with this American. Is that what you gave everything up for? A man you knew for just a few days? A Jewish one, no less? Has my training been completely wasted?" An edge creeps into his voice with the last question. The rasping of my breath picks up in another long silence.

Then he is moving back towards his chair, grinding his cigarette into the table. "You have, for one reason or another, decided that being dead would be better than to continue on as you have. You have admitted failure in the eyes of the Reich and no doubt, you deserve death." He smiles. "And you tried to connive Henrich into doing the dirty work. Tell me, was your declaration just to rile him, or was it actually true? Now as you remember what exactly what I am prepared to do to gain your loyalty, tell me your true reasons."

He stops and looks at me again, clearly waiting for me to answer. My jaw is loose and uncontrollable and my tongue is thick and unwieldy.

"I…" agony radiates across my face. "Love… him."

There is no reaction other than another cold smile. "So that really is it, then? Love swept you off your feet and made you risk everything for a man who isn't even here to help you?"

If he wants me to speak again I don't comply. He sits once more.

"You were so perfect, Caroline. Remember? Such a success story. We knew the Jewish problem would never be solved as long as people like your parents still existed. But then you came along, proof that minds and hearts could be changed and that soon there would be a day were no Jew could hide amongst us or be smuggled out of our reach. You were the first step in ensuring our victory. Even with this latest setback I still consider you my best student, my diamond in the rough. So although you deserve nothing but a firing squad for this stunt, I'm not going to allow that to happen. You are going to come from this stronger and more dedicated than ever before. I refuse to admit failure when it comes to you."

I stare at him in disbelief. He couldn't mean – we were going to continue this? Like nothing had changed in the last six years?

"N-no," I manage.

He nods, smiling again. "Yes, we are. We are going to start from the beginning. I don't care how many times it takes."

I can't go back there. I can't.

I'm staggering to my feet before I even know what I'm doing, lurching around to the door behind me. My knees shake and I catch myself on the door handle. I barely start to turn the knob before his larger hand wraps around my own, yanking me away and flattening me against the wall.

"Trying to run?" he asks coolly, looking down at me disapprovingly. "My, my. We have much more work ahead of us than I anticipated."

My legs give out and he lets me slide down the wall until I meet the floor, still holding onto my hand.

"Get up," he commands. "I'll not have you looking so pathetic."

I ignore him. I can't go back. I'm not going to.

"Caroline," he says in warning. "I'm going to give you – "

He is cut off by a loud noise vibrating through the wall.

A sharp whistle, growing louder and closer.

We both freeze, looking upward, as if we could see what was coming through the ceiling.

I know that sound. It means - _shit_.

I think Dr. Mueller does too and his grip bites into my wrist as he tenses. I throw my other arm over my head and duck into my knees, even though this will be useless if the shell is aimed for us and, really, isn't that what I want anyway?

It strikes with a deafening boom that echoes through the room and the entire building quakes under the force of the blast. Dr. Mueller is thrown back into the table, dragging me until I am stretched out on the floor before I slip from his grasp. The structure gives out a loud groan as if in pain and with a ripping crack the far wall topples inward, billowing out a cloud of blinding dust that consumes us both. In the sudden dimness I hear the door fly open.

"Dr. Mueller!" Henrich's voice cries out. "The Americans are attacking!"

"I can see that, you idiot," comes a groaned reply from over by the table. As the dust begins to settle their feet become faintly visible from my position of the floor. They still can't see me. I've got to _fucking_ get out of here before they do. I shakily rise to my knees, pulling myself towards the jagged opening in the wall. A bright glow is coming from somewhere on the other side and I make for it. Broken bricks and twisted beams of wood litter my path and I wince as one of them noisily collapses when I put my weight on it.

"Caroline!" A voice barks behind me. Another explosion shakes the ground and I scramble faster as a second wave of dust joins the first. Splinters and broken bits of glass cut into my hands as I tumble through the opening, landing on my back in the debris on the other side.

" _Caroline!_ " The voice calls again and I hear someone stumbling over the mess towards me. Heaving back onto all fours, I push onward towards the dim shaft of daylight cutting through the murkiness. A fire is reaching up the wall of this classroom, the orange flames reflecting brightly in the choking cloud. I skirt around it, making for the outside. As the glow grows brighter I ignore my busted face or bleeding arm. I focus on that white beacon of escape and give everything I have into reaching it. Dirt hangs in the air, blinding and thick, making my eyes water and clogging in my throat. Desks and chairs are littered across the room, wasting precious seconds as I climb over them. There is a crash behind me and the sound of grunting as I'm pursued. Jagged pieces of metal tear at my clothes but I frantically claw forward. I can see the outside. I can make out blades of charred grass of the school's lawn. With one final push I fall out, rolling onto the grass in the bright sunlight.

The air is clean out here and it takes a moment to clear out my lungs. As the sounds of my own gasps subside I detect what exactly is going on.

Gunfire.

Screaming.

I stagger to my feet again, ducking as a spray of bullets bounces down the outside of the school. Shouting in German and English comes from all directions and I make to round the north side of the school, to break for the relative safety of the woods on the other side.

Careening around the corner, I nearly run into soldier pressed up against the brick. Sliding to a stop just in the time, the black, hollow end of a rifle barrel fills my vision. Staring, I frantically retreat a few steps, my heart leaping into my throat.

 _"Caroline?!"_

I follow the rifle to the hands holding it, up a chest covered by an American uniform, and...

Joe.

* * *

 _"Do you know that your mother is still alive?"_

 _I sit in Dr. Mueller's cavernous office, not moving a muscle. My face stays stoic, not giving away my surprise at this news. Dr. Mueller hasn't breathed a word about her in the year I've been at this camp. I thought she was dead._

 _The weather outside is hot again. I'm in my summer uniform – a khaki jacket and a matching skirt. My black, polished heels reflect even the dim light coming from his desk lamp. The pink scars on my legs are apparent, but no one looks at them. I've pinned my armband too tightly; numbness tingles in my bicep._

 _"No, sir, I didn't," I answer evenly. He nods in approval._

 _"She has been in our custody since the night we raided your home. Let me tell you, she has had a lot to say over the last year." While he spoke he thumbed through a stack of papers, but now he pauses, looking at me hard. "Tell me, what are your thoughts on your parents these days?"_

 _I take a breath. "They betrayed our Fuhrer and brought Jews into our home. They colluded with the Jews to weaken Germany. They are traitors."_

 _He chuckles with pleasure. "Very good. You will not mind then when I tell you that your mother was having an affair with one of the Jewish men hiding in your basement."_

 _The fact is dropped casually. Indeed, he fishes around his jacket for his cigarette case as he conveys it to me. I watch him, speechless._

 _"It's true," he says, looking back to me. "She admitted it under questioning. She said she would pretend to be out in the house, but really she was down there with him. All of the other Jews knew about it. Just you and your poor father were kept in the dark." He flicks open his lighter. "You are lucky you were blessed with good Aryan features. Otherwise their might be some questions about your lineage."_

 _A clock on the mantel ticks noisily as I sit motionless in my chair. I should… hate her. She betrayed everything the Fuhrer is trying to accomplish, sleeping with a Jew – Father would have been heartbroken. I was so stupidly naïve –_

 _"Where is she now?" I ask, successfully keeping my face impartially empty._

 _But she is my mother. Deep down, it doesn't matter what she does, does it? Can I really –_

 _Dr. Mueller wave his cigarette dismissively. "She is still being detained." He watches me carefully again. "You know what the punishment for hiding Jews is, but to also have intimate relations…" The end of his cigarette flares as he inhales and his closes the metal case shut with a sharp snap before putting it back in his coat. "And she isn't the only partisan up to such activities. I want you to listen to me very carefully, Caroline. You know you are being prepared here to be a servant of the Reich. That comes with many responsibilities, especially for someone like you who is going to gather a lot of attention. The Fuhrer is depending on true believers like ourselves to ensure Germany's victory over her enemies. That means what is going to be asked of us, and specifically you, may seem at first horrible and absurd."_

 _He moves in his chair until his elbows are resting on the desk, his fingers steepled under his chin. "The things we do have to be done, Caroline, no matter how awful they may seem. That is the only way Germany is going to rise out of the ashes. What I tell you to do may seem ugly and senseless, but that is because we have allowed ourselves to become ugly and senseless. The Fuhrer is going to cleanse us of our folly and sometimes brutal force is the only way this can be accomplished."_

 _I swallow the lump building in my throat as he gaze burns into mine. I don't know what he is talking about, but the intensity of his words is unmistakable as it shimmers in the air between us. He is dancing around something big and this is some sort of test. Just like everything else here has been. I have not failed in many months now, and I don't plan on starting again now._

 _"Yes, sir."_

* * *

The world is suddenly thrown into a muffled dimness, like I have been dropped into a fishbowl and everything outside my body is just wavy patterns of color and indistinct noises that mean nothing and don't strip my focus from who is front of me. The battle behind us, the men chasing me, the very ground beneath my feet… all of it fades into a vague background that simultaneously becomes meaningless and irrelevant.

Because of him.

As opposed to everything else he is in sharp definition, staring at me with those brown eyes that I assumed would only be visible in my memory for the short time before my death. I feel my mouth move, that pain blistering through my skull as only a distant, stifled ache. My lips form the world and even though I can't hear it I know what I say.

"Joe."

His eyes widen even further as he sweeps over my bloody, filthy appearance. But then, as the frozen second stretches that surprise slowly drains away, morphing his face into one that pierces straight through my heart. His mouth flattens into a thin line, his jaw goes rigid, and his eyes harden until we are back in the woods and my betrayal is killing him all over again.

And just like that the fishbowl shatters and everything crashes into me in a cacophonous wave of sound, sight, and pure pain, both singularly acute in my injuries and completely unspeakable in my mind. An explosion rocks the wreckage of a building across from the school and he flinches, not moving from the shelter of the wall. My feet likewise are cemented in place and even with the debris and bullets flying around us I can't even be bothered to protect myself. Over the noise I hear the clatter of someone breaking free of the remains of the school and with pure dread I realize that although I have found him, he won't be saving me this time.

He keeps his gun pointed at me. "I thought you would have had the sense to at least avoid crossing back over the line, but I see you decided to choose a side. At least now it's pretty fucking obvious."

"No –" I try to say, but nothing will work. My scattered brain isn't coming up with the words and my broken jaw won't pronounce them.

Darkness crosses behind his eyes and he takes a threatening step towards me. "I spared your life once, Caroline. I'm not so fucking inclined to do it again. Your _kommandant_ friend from the camp is dead. Unless you want to join him I suggest you get the fuck away from me."

Footsteps are pounding the ground behind me and my insides go haywire. I can't go back but I can't let Joe execute me. I can see his hesitation despite his heartless demeanor, the hurt he can't quite cover up, that means that shooting me would not be an easy revenge he so desperately wants it to be.

The battle blurs as I reel around, ready to take off into a run towards the deadly commotion that would mean the certain death I craved. More wetness runs down my face and I can't tell if it is tears or more blood. The world is gray with dirt and smoke and faint figures of men dart through it as the ear-bleeding pops of gunfire continue ceaselessly.

I only make it a few steps before an arm bites into my waist, yanking me off my feet. Surrender, so ready to break free underneath my last frantic attempt at escape, takes over as the last of my courage peters out against the utter hopelessness of everything that has happened here. Dr. Mueller is yelling something into my ear but I can't tell what it is as I'm swung back around when he goes to sprint back to the school.

Those brown eyes meet mine one last time and I register his confusion as I'm carted off, limp in the arms of a _SS_ officer. I know now the wetness is tears and I can only hold his gaze helplessly until we disappear back around the corner. Henrich follows in our footsteps and at the last moment I see him raise his gun to fire at Joe. The noise meshes into one overwhelming symphony of death and as Dr. Mueller drags me back into the building I lose sight of both of them in the dust.

Dr. Mueller lifts me over the ruins of the classroom and we enter a hallway filled with shouting, smoke, and flying papers that people are desperately burning or shredding. Another tremble shakes the foundation as he weaves his way through the chaos, until we burst through another door and are outside again at the rear of the building. A car waits, idling, the _SS_ private at the wheel looking nervous and panicked. Hitching me up against him, Dr. Mueller rips open the door and throws me inside. He barely makes it in himself before the driver floors it, and we take off to the north, away from the village.

I don't look back.

* * *

 _"Graduation is only a month away, Caroline. Are you ready?"_

 _"Yes, sir."_

 _"I want you to know how proud I am of you. When you came to me two years ago I wasn't sure I would ever be able to show you the light. You have surpassed all of my expectations and more. You deserve your position at the head of the class. You and Henrich will be role models for all German children to aspire."_

 _"Thank you, sir."_

 _"But there is one last thing you must do for me. One final test."_

 _We stand outside of one of the administration buildings. A strange car is parked outside of it and as I look at the windowless expanse of the building an uneasiness settles in my gut._

 _"Twelve children started out in this program. Only you and Henrich remain. Do you think that is a coincidence?"_

 _"No, sir," I reply automatically._

 _"Exactly. Their loyalty wasn't enough for our Fuhrer and they failed. You are here because you have realized what it takes to make Germany a world power once again."_

 _"Yes, sir."_

 _He opens the door and ushers me through an empty entryway. Another door is closed at the end and he pauses as we reach it. "This is it, Caroline. This is where you prove to everyone how far you have come."_

 _The second door opens with a heavy creak, revealing a large room. My eyes immediately focus at the person on the far end. I don't recognize her at first and one confusing second passes before her face registers in my memory. My mother._

 _She is skeletal, wearing loose, cotton pajamas that looked like they were meant for a man. Her head rests against her chest dejectedly and she slumps against the ties holding her upright. She is barely identifiable and doesn't react to my presence._

 _A table is opposite her, holding a single object. A Luger._

 _As the pieces come together I feel myself backing up, recoiling against what I'm being told to do. My back runs into Dr. Mueller, who stills me by grabbing my shoulders. His voice whispers in my ear._

 _"Remember what she did, Caroline. Remember your training. Those who betray the Fuhrer deserve nothing. Not even an easy death."_

 _I watch her. She doesn't look up. Her face is littered with yellowing bruises and her hair is limp and matted._

 _What she did._

 _Hide Jews._

 _Betray my father._

 _I have to -_

 _The Luger shines in the light. I reach for it but my hand stops in midair, trembling. I can't. I'm not a murderer. Dr. Mueller talks louder, his fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. "They will destroy us if we don't destroy them first."_

 _She… she…_

 _My hand closes around the cold metal of the gun._

 _I_ have _to._

 _"This is what traitors deserve." Are those words coming from him? Or from the darkness in my head?_

 _My parents are Jew-loving traitors._

 _After all of my training the gun fits in my hand with practiced familiarity._

 _"Do it."_

 _The pistol is shaking. The sights waver and jump on my target._

 _Suddenly she looks up, her eyes open and filled with misery and pain. They jump to Dr. Mueller and back to me, the desolation intensifying. Her shoulders drop further and her lips move, the words quick and pleading. Begging me to end it. "Do it, Caroline."_

 _I can't breathe. "Mother…"_

 _"Pull the trigger."_

 _My hand goes rigid and the sights narrow on her._

 _"Caroline._ Pull the trigger _."_

 _I do._

 _My finger retracts. The firing pin strikes. An explosion. The bullet leaves the barrel, straight and on target. The slide recoils with the force and the barrel retracts upward before my hand steadies it again. The spent casing ejects, spinning to bounce across the floor. A new bullet fills the chamber._

 _And Mother goes limp, a red stain growing on her pajamas._

 _As the noise of the shot dissipates and the silence grows I realize two things._

 _One. I've passed the test._

 _Two._

 _... I'm not sure if Mother actually said anything._

 _Dr. Mueller's hands drop from my shoulders. The joy is evident in his voice._

 _"You always were my best student."_


	33. Chapter 32

She had been hurt.

That was the first thought that went through his mind.

He didn't plan on running into her again, let alone when bullets were flying and everything was exploding. He didn't think she would come back to the village, to be here of all places now of all times. Item and Fox were waylaying the town from the south while Easy had flanked to the east, which left Joe pressed up against some building sighting where the shells were falling as his platoon waited for orders on how to best negotiate the chaos raging in the streets.

The artillery was supposed to cut off as they entered the town, but that message clearly got fucking lost on its way to the rear and when the building he was sheltering against rocked with an errant explosion he was about to yell at Luz to radio those idiots to fucking stop.

Then she appeared out of the haze of dirt and smoke like a fucking ghost and he forgot all about Luz.

His breath caught, the rushed calculations he was making as he watched German soldiers organize screeched to a halt, and for a moment he thought he had finally lost it. That Caroline standing before him was the sign that he had finally separated from reality.

Her name – _that name_ – emerged shocked from his lips and she stopped, blinking as though she knew this couldn't be real as well. The instant she recognized him she stumbled unsteadily backwards and then that thought went through his head, rising out of the jumble of confusion to ring out clearly between his ears.

She had been hurt.

The injuries she gathered over the last week were still there, ugly and healing, but between the moment he left her in the woods and now something else terrible had happened. Her face was swollen purple with new bruises. Her clothes were stained and dirty. Her left sleeve was torn and the skin of her arm was sliced open to weep drops of red on the ground. The blonde strands of her hair were caked with gray dirt and stuck to her skin with a glue of dried blood. She was nearly unrecognizable.

But she was still Caroline.

 _Caroline._

And like a door slamming shut the twisting, overwhelming glut of feelings brought on by again laying eyes on her ceased, dissipating with the same suddenness with which it arose.

Caroline. Nazi. _The Jews_.

He felt himself hardening, closing off any sentiment that was not tainted with the pit of vile hatred that arose when he found the camp. She was dead to him, figuratively if not literally. The fact that she somehow got the shit beat out of her did not change this fact. Her very presence here, back in this village, was telling enough of her loyalties. And that made him only a bigger fool for how he had felt about her.

He was in his element, in the heart of battle where he had no qualms about being a black-hearted killer. It was what he knew and what he was good at. If he couldn't pull the trigger in the forest yesterday there should be nothing stopping him now, here in the heat and noise and flying debris that framed every second of the pestilent struggle this past year had been for him. He came into this fight expecting to eliminate everyone in his path before they could do the same to him but now fate planted Caroline squarely in front of him in some sick cosmic joke. Taunting him, playing his rock-solid resolution to kill Nazis against the tender, gaping wound stinging under the layers of his shame and anger – a wound that still thought of things like her welfare.

She saw right through him. The words threatening her, to get her away from him before he was going to have to come down on one side of his internal debate and make a decision… saddened her. He meant to scare her, but her swollen face drew down in a look of grief, of knowing that what they had was as destroyed as the buildings crumbling to the ground around them. She knew under his bluster he was nursing a bloodied heart despite however hard he tried to deny this fact or tell himself that this would be time he would finally make her pay.

And then she ran away. She turned and fled from him like he was the enemy he told her he was, straight into the hellish heart of gunfire and deafening bursts of shells from the sky. He almost went after her. The sight of her making a suicidal charge had him pushing off the wall before he got ahold of himself once more, remembering his resolve that he owed her nothing.

 _Nothing._

She didn't get very far before another figure emerged from the damaged building to grab her mid-step. As she was pulled out of the crossfire maybe a trickle of relief went through him. Maybe it didn't.

She betrayed him. He hated her. Yes, he did. He _did_.

Even if he couldn't shake the thought of her from his mind. Even if Eichelsdorfer's death did nothing to quell the circus of fucking annoying emotions that wouldn't leave him alone.

He didn't have time to process what was happening before the figure turned, swinging Caroline around helplessly back into his view. She looked straight at him again, that look of sadness deepening into pure and unadulterated desolation. She didn't fight the man holding her – another _SS_ officer – as he carried her back to the opening blown into the building. Her eyes held his, filled with unknowable things that would never be said, until she was consumed by the cloud of dust again and became nothing more than the trail of blood left drying on the ground.

For a moment he questioned if any of it really happened.

He was answered by the third figure that materialized to confront him. Another face he knew, and one where any argument in his mind immediately coalesced into a singular thought: _shoot_.

Henrich was panicked, unnerved by the noise and commotion of the battle like a replacement fresh out of basic. He held a pistol that he pointed at Joe, the barrel trembling in his grip. Even before he fired Joe knew he wouldn't hit the broad side of a barn. The best of training couldn't overcome the fear that coupled with a realization that any second a bullet or shrapnel or a grenade could whisk one off the mortal coil with chilling, detached efficiency. Thus his shots went wide, missing their target by a mile to dig into the ground at Joe's feet or the brick above his head. Henrich left himself open in this haste, letting the pistol be his only line of defense rather than some form of cover.

Joe raised his rifle for a clean, decisive head shot but his finger froze on the trigger as the sights rested on his target. Henrich perceived Joe's pause as a weakness and moved closer, eliminating the distance that was making his bullets go so far off the mark. But no, Henrich deserved no mercy and Joe's hesitation wasn't fueled by any wayward desire to spare him. What happened as he looked at the blonde man, so mindlessly trapped in a fraught struggle to eliminate his American opponent, was something shifting in Joe's view of the entire situation. An emerging dread of the happenstance of Caroline's bloodied body and Henrich's presence here.

He realized the two facts were related. He knew Henrich was not a man who would spare Caroline any punishment for what help she did give Joe.

But Caroline didn't deserve anything. He shouldn't –

 _Son of a bitch._

He fired, cutting off the warring voices in his head with a decisive action. His round tore into Henrich's shoulder, taking out a large chunk of Henrich with it as it passed through. With a pained scream the man crumpled to the ground, the pistol bouncing uselessly away.

Behind him, he could hear the shouts that the all clear was given, that the artillery boys had finally backed off. There was a pounding of boots against the churned ground as the rest of the squad pushed forward to his OP. Garcia hit the wall next to Joe, looking over to Henrich writhing in the dirt.

"Do we put him out of his misery?" he asked.

Joe kept his eyes on the Nazi.

"No, we don't."

* * *

The battle was easy, in the relative parlance of the rest of the war. The Germans knew what was coming and had for the most part pulled back to the north, leaving a skeletal defense that crumpled like a house of cards once it was surrounded. Joe cleared a few buildings left standing, shot a few soldiers that remained to fight, and generally operated on instinct rather than purpose. In the back of his consciousness that vision danced, the one of her looking to him in such defeat as she was carted off by a man he didn't know to a fate he couldn't guess. It was a distraction, one that he despised himself for having but couldn't seem to dismiss no matter how hard he focused. He told himself over and over that Caroline was no longer his concern, pulled memories of that camp and their fateful talk in the woods to remind himself of his burning anger, and straight up considered slapping himself across the fucking face.

But deep down, he knew none of it would work.

So he found himself trekking across the village after victory was declared, back to that building where he last saw her. It was still smoking from a fire the engineers were putting out, blown through with holes like a slice of Swiss cheese. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. To find out what happened to her? Evidence to show that Caroline had done all of those terrible things he assumed by her silence? Something to convince himself to be finally done with her once and for all? To prepare himself to pull that damn trigger if they were thrown together again in another improbable twist of fate?

Fuck if he could answer his own goddamn questions.

He stepped through the door into a dim and empty hallway. The building used to be a school, he guessed as he walked past rooms with chalkboards hung from the wall. The desks, though, were removed to make room for the military's use and he glanced over the tables and filing cabinets in their place. He hoped Nixon wouldn't stick him with translating more files later, although at least these wouldn't be about Jews. With any luck.

Smears of blood marked the floor and walls, although the injured and dead had already been removed. He pressed forward, peeking into each room like he would find a fucking flashing sign proclaiming _Caroline Was Here_. The end of the hallway was blocked by a wall broken bricks, wooden studs, and utility piping. He guessed he was near the hole Caroline was pulled through and slowed to look more carefully into the rooms as he got closer.

It was the last one he could reach, of course.

The first thing he noticed was the classroom was severely damaged, with one wall broken to reveal a pathway through another completely demolished classroom to the outside opening. The second thing he noticed was that pathway was covered in blood. He stepped inward, using the daylight streaming in from the far hole to look closer.

It was painted over the mess, long streaks telling of a frantic struggle to reach the outside. A series of handprints, too small to be anyone's but hers, marked one long board she appeared to crawl along to get out. Dirty boot prints followed.

He licked his lips, not letting himself think of the implications of her being chased.

 _She killed Jews._

"Joe," a voice called behind him. He spun around, wiping his face of whatever expression reflected the thoughts running through him.

Nixon was standing in the doorway. "Come with me. I need your help with some files."

Of fucking course.

"Yes, sir," he responded, following the officer out and leaving that room behind.

Leaving her behind. It was a fucking foolish thing to do, to try to retread what their relationship was to define it now. Looking for answers would only bring more pain. She was gone, probably forever.

Nixon led him up a set of stairs to another long hallway bordered by more classrooms. Pushing open the first door they came across, he was met with a large room housing several long desks. Boxes of files and papers were everywhere.

He held back a sigh.

"I'm not going to have you read everything," Nixon said quickly. "I just need assistance in starting some organization so that when the translators from battalion get here they can start on the important stuff right away."

"Yes, sir," he repeated, stepping towards the nearest desk. Part of him wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. Another part of him wondered what the hell he was going to do with himself when he was free again. He had a feeling he was going to end up back in that fucking room.

Maybe it would be best if this took the rest of the day.

They worked quietly for the most part, Joe only speaking to give Nixon an idea of what each box they came across contained and Nixon sorting it appropriately. Almost everything was surveillance and personal files of who he assumed lived in the village. The routine was lulling, a welcome peace after the loud mayhem of this morning. For once his mind finally settled, going quiet and giving him a mental break as he mechanically flipped through every box.

At least for a few minutes.

As they moved through the room he reached one desk that was oddly clear of the disordered papers covering the rest. Just one box sat squarely in the middle, as if waiting for him. Looking at it, a stream of apprehension worked through his chest.

Writing on the side.

 _Alsbach, C._

Her files.

He couldn't hide his response as he halted in place, his eyes glued to that box like it was a demented gift left for him to push him over the edge. An icy hand crept up his spine in warning.

Nixon noticed Joe's change immediately and followed his gaze as he came up to stand next to Joe. His eyes widened in astonishment.

"Caroline Alsbach? Those are Caroline Alsbach's files?"

The sound of her name and Nixon's stunned toned snapped him back to the present. He jerked his head over, looking at Nixon with wide eyes. Malarkey might have known her first name, but he didn't tell anyone her last. Had he stepped into an alternate dimension or fucking something? What the hell - "You know her, sir?"

Nixon stared back, seemingly equally bewildered. "Do you? I heard you stayed with a German woman, but… her?"

Joe didn't know what to think. Why the fuck would Nixon be interested in her? Why was finding her box such a big deal to him? He nodded in response.

"Shit," Nixon cursed. "Dick didn't have her name when I asked and we thought she was just a civilian. If I had known – " He huffed in annoyance and stalked over to the box, dragging it across the desk to him. "Right under my nose," he muttered to himself.

Joe watched, feeling helpless with uncertainty. Nixon looked back over. "There were rumors that she was being stowed somewhere in Bavaria, but we never got a precise location." He chuckled. "OSS is going to have a party when I bring her in. Where did you put her to stay? I heard she wasn't at the HQ any longer."

"She's gone," he blurted, still not believing he was discussing her with Nixon like she was just another German. One Nixon clearly knew a lot about.

Nixon paused. "Gone where?"

"Back-back to the Germans." He felt the blood drain from his face as he stuttered the words out and Nixon tensed.

"Back to them? Why would she go back to them, especially after she made it over to our side?"

There was something big hovering over him. Something he didn't know, and the look on Nixon's face it made his stomach turn sickeningly. "She's…" his voice came out as a plaintive whisper, "she's a Nazi."

Right?

Nixon's brow furrowed.

 _Wasn't she?_

She told him – well, not with words, but still. She was guilty. He gave her every chance – why was Nixon looking at him like that? He had done the right thing… she had to be a Nazi. Look at fucking Kaufering. He had proof.

"What did she tell you?" Nixon asked curiously.

"She said she…" Well, what the fuck had she told him? What were the lies and what was the truth? He took an involuntary step towards the box. Then another. "She was a Nazi, wasn't she?" His voice took on a foreign, pleading edge. He needed Nixon to confirm it. He needed to know –

"She was a Party member, yes, but did she tell you why?"

No, she didn't. That was one thing he knew for sure. He knew confidently what she didn't tell him. A piercing headache screamed through his skull.

Nixon watched him carefully, his sharp gaze seeing more than Joe would like to admit. "There was reason you brought her with you when you returned besides gratitude, wasn't there?"

Joe focused on keeping air moving through is lungs. The distinct feeling of something being wrong, of him having done something terrible, trembled through him with a threatening ache.

Nixon knew the answer without Joe speaking and his voice softened. "Did she go back on her own? Or did something happen?"

A shudder went involuntarily through him. Yes, something did happen. Something she admitted to. Something he should hate her for. He _had_ to hate her for. He knew he did the right thing. He needed to do the right thing. "Kaufering," he spit out, the name tasting bitter on his tongue.

Nixon leaned back, sitting against the desk. "Kaufering," he echoed, obviously remembering Joe's reaction to the place and how he suddenly stormed out of the commandant's office to leave without another word. "You think she had something to do with the camp? That she supported it?"

"She was a Nazi," he shot back defensively, forgetting that he was speaking to a captain. "When I asked her about it…" What had she said?

 _"Let me explain."_

Another shot of pain burned through his chest. He didn't give her the chance.

But… but… the photograph-

His hand was digging into his pocket before he knew it, yanking out the creased picture. "This is all the proof I needed," he finally said, tossing it onto the desk. Nixon picked it up to examine it. His eyes were somber when he met Joe's again.

"I think you need to sit down, Joe."

* * *

Joe watched at the fat folder on the desk in front of him. Nixon sat across from him, flicking through the other folders in the box. The room was silent. The air still smelled of burning wood and gunpowder.

"I think this is the main one," Nixon finally said, setting the box at his feet. "We don't know as much about her as we would like. At least not as much as we have discovered about her partner, Henrich Lehmann. The Lehmanns have been heavily involved with the NSDAP since the Beer Hall Putsch and information about them has come to us easily. But most of the records regarding the Alsbach family were destroyed in 1938."

Joe was going to vomit. He was sure of it. He stared despondently at the folder.

Nixon hesitated. "What did she tell you?"

He wanted to smoke, but it felt like his limbs weighed a million pounds and he didn't try to reach for his cigarettes. "She was involved as some sort of propaganda. Her parents were dead."

"That's it?"

He nodded miserably.

He hadn't known _anything_.

Nixon carefully opened the folder and they both looked at the top page. There was a picture of her, looking severe, in a uniform pinned to the corner and his gut automatically rebelled. See? He was right. She was a fucking Nazi.

She _was_.

The rest of the page was biographical – her birth date, place of birth, and her parent's names. Near the bottom was an open box, filled in with handwritten notes.

 _29 December 1938 – 1st contact. Reason: Partisan activity: sheltering Jewish fugitives. See report. Action: Arrest_

He read it again.

And again.

The third time he felt himself start to shake. This was a trick. This was something they made up to cover up who she really was. Nixon was lying. This… this was lying. _Lying._

Sheltering Jewish fugitives. Sheltering _Jewish_ fugitives.

No, no, no, no –

He felt dizzy. Bile climbed up his throat. Why hadn't she said anything? … Why…

Because it couldn't be true. It couldn't be –

Oh God.

"Her parents were active in the underground and their house served as a layover point on the route to smuggle Jews out of Berlin and, hopefully, to the coast or to Switzerland.," Nixon began to explain, oblivious to the building pressure looking to tear Joe to pieces. "We don't really know the extent of how many –"

His voice faded from Joe's hearing, replaced by a disorienting roar. His eyes watered but he couldn't force himself to blink as the rest of the lines shouted at him from the page.

 _29 December 1938: Evaluation commenced. Subject displays resistance to program consistent with parental influence. Action: Pain modification plan instituted._

 _5 January 1939: Resistance continues. Action: Food withheld until cooperation achieved._

 _13 January 1939: Subject displaying physical deterioration. Action: None._

 _18 January 1939: Verbal cooperation achieved. Action: Food reinstated.._

 _19 January 1939: 21 day period #1 complete. See progress report. Action: Evaluation extended._

 _9 February 1939: 21 day period #2 complete. See progress report. Action: Evaluation extended._

 _30 February 1939: 21 day period #3 complete. See progress report. Action: Finalize progress and issue findings._

 _5 March 1939: Paternal execution witnessed. Reaction favorable to future progress. See final report. Action: Proceed to retraining phase._

"What…" What were the words? What was he trying to ask? He was leaning forward in his seat, the truth in black cursive leering closer. Pain modification. Food withheld. Physical deterioration. Paternal _execution_.

 _What the fuck had happened to her?_

"What happened," Nixon said slowly and Joe realized he had spoken out loud, "was that she was an experiment. They wanted to see if they could turn a Jewish sympathizer into a first-rate Nazi."

The words sliced into him, damning him for everything he thought he knew about her. He couldn't take this. It was too much. First the camp, then the woods, then the battle, and now this? He was breaking, his insides cracking into a million pieces under the pressure of the blows he was trying to endure. He found himself shoving back from the table, jolting to his feet and stumbling for the door. Nixon could have called after him, but Joe couldn't hear anymore. He couldn't feel. He could barely see past the haze of thick madness that descended over his mind like a shroud on a corpse. The stairs were there and he saw the walls pass by like he was descending them. But he didn't know. He wasn't telling his feet to do anything. There was nowhere for him to go. He trapped, caged like a wild animal inside his own body to rot with the knowledge of what had happened. What he had done.

 _That room._

He was back here again, back looking at the stains of blood that she had left behind. Her struggle to escape the clutches of the people who tortured her, who she almost got away from until he shoved her right back in their arms.

And it wasn't just the pathway lit red with the life coming out of her. The table, too, was stained black under the layer of dirt. Blood clung to the bottom of his shoes. It was everywhere. The air was drenched with the smell of pain and fear.

God, what had they done to her? What had he left her to?

His tortured mind pushed forward with punishing images culled from the darkest depth of his imagination. Her, at this table here, Henrich landing blows to her face. Her, injured and desperate, crawling to freedom and her one last chance at surviving.

Only he was there to head her off and threaten to kill her for what he thought she had done.

But what was it? Why was she at Kaufering? Why was she in those photographs?

Nixon again, behind him talking. The sound needled into his ears, demanding and persistent. Nixon had the answers. Nixon knew why. Joe need to come back, to reestablish a link with what was going on if only for the sake of having his questions resolved.

Even if the answers ultimately destroyed him.

"- she was sent to some sort of training camp. We don't know much about it other than it was similar as a Hitler Youth facility but far more difficult. Students were sent there with the understanding that if they failed they wouldn't be coming back. Whatever happened there only the people who experienced it can say, but two years later only she and Henrich graduated. Their ceremony consisted of taking the oath to join the Party." There was a heavy pause. "Her father was executed in front of her after their arrest – "

"So I read," Joe's voice grinded flatly in his throat. Nixon paused again.

"Prior to graduation she was given a task, according to the rumors. She had to kill her mother."

Joe flinched like he had been shot. He thought of Schueller's last moments. Of her holding the pistol like it was an old friend. "Did she?"

He heard Nixon sigh. "All we know is that she graduated."

Jesus Christ. He wasn't sure if he could hold himself up any longer. He thought of the dark shadows that passed behind her eyes, or the distant look that came across her face with her mind drifted to places he couldn't fathom.

Jesus fucking Christ.

"From that point forward she was mainly fodder for the press. She gave speeches at rallies, interviews for magazines, and posed for propaganda photographs. She came on our radar in late 1942 when she appeared in a film taken of a high level meeting at Hitler's Wolf's Lair in Prussia, presumably to discuss the possibility of expanding the program that created her to the Soviet civilians that came under Germany's control after Operation Barbarossa. Goebbels thought to defeat Stalin by tearing the Soviet Union apart from the inside. Ultimately, though, it was decided that the program was too labor intensive to feasibly include millions of Russians, so it never got off the ground."

The sun was setting outside, the rays glowing through the wreckage of the room. Something bright and silver caught his eyes next to the splintered table.

"She and Henrich became engaged in early 1943, when she was sixteen. We are not sure what happened after that, but her appearances became more erratic."

He breathed hard through this nose. It was an easy fucking guess why. He squeezed his eyes shut and found himself back in the barn, watching Henrich manhandle her with a knowing ease. A pop sounded from his right knuckles and when he looked he found his hands curled tightly into fists. That silver glint showed brighter and he made his way towards it if only to distract himself before he did something rash like break his hand against the wall.

"Then, in October 1943, she visited Kaufering and took that picture you found. While there she somehow discovered some of the prisoners in the midst of digging an escape tunnel."

Joe stopped, snapping his head towards Nixon so hard his neck cracked.

" _What?_ "

Nixon looked imploring. "Mind you, I'm only going off whispers that OSS and SIS has intercepted over the years now, so take this with a grain of salt until I know more. I would predict that the only official record of what happened is in that box upstairs. The last thing the Nazis wanted was word spreading that their pride and joy was still subversive. But _allegedly_ she stumbled across them digging in one of the bunkhouses. Instead of reporting them she made arrangements to meet them in the woods when they made a run for it. She was going to give them food and clothing for their journey, maybe a ride too so the dogs couldn't track them."

Joe didn't move while he waited for Nixon to finish, but in many ways he already knew how this story was going to end. She had to end up destitute in that farmhouse somehow. He doubted it was by coincidence that she was there to save his sorry ass.

Nixon swallowed, looking down. "The plan was discovered. Caroline was the only one of the group to walk out of the woods alive."

 _Guilt._

That was the look on her face when he spun around in the woods, ready to shoot her dead.

She felt guilty.

He thought it was because she was a murderer and that she was finally atoning for sins. But could it… could it be guilt over something else? Something like causing the deaths of Jews by bungling their escape?

What had he asked her? _Have you killed any?_

Could she be blaming herself for that?

But she was silent. She could have explained. He would have listened –

 _Would you have?_

He had been so angry. So bloodthirsty. She had tried to talk and he remembered her words boiling the cauldron over in him, making him interrupt to silence what he thought were excuses. The camp had led him up to the edge of the precipice and the photograph pushed him right over.

He dragged her out to the woods without a word. She probably expected him to kill her regardless of what she tried to say. She never tried to run. She never tried to fight.

She only apologized.

"She completely disappeared after that," Nixon said softly. "We thought she had been executed until the photographs began appearing again. The articles accompanying them said she was in the country to support the agricultural effort, but we noticed her weight loss and the poor quality of her clothes and realized that she was in some form of exile. Bavaria was the natural choice given the fervent Nazism here and from what little we could tell of the landscape in the pictures. But we had no idea until now where they were keeping her."

That glimmer of silver was what he thought it was. What he expected it to be. He pulled his dog tag from the dirt, running his thumb over the stamped words.

 _H_

Hebrew.

The note wasn't far away, the words flecked with more dribbles of blood.

They knew everything. He thought of her bleeding, bruised face again. The look of utter despondency as she was carried back into the jaws of the monster that had been chasing her for seven years while he looked on, smug with righteousness. He had failed her. Completely and unreservedly.

"Do you know where she would be?" Nixon asked.

"No." He looked around the room again. Her torture chamber. Killing that Nazi mayor hadn't healed the hole in his heart. Neither had killing the commandant. He still felt impotent and useless in the face of what had happened to his people and how there was nothing he could do to reverse the carnage. He still felt the hollow blackness of a broken man with notches carved into his rifle to prove to himself that he wasn't _pathetic_ , that he was to be feared instead.

But she was still out there – the one person who made him feel whole. Who loved him despite knowing the man he was. Her plight was one thing he could fix. One wrong he could try to make right. One time where he could use the savage inside of him to help her. He deserted her in a fit of foolish rage, but now he could save her from the fate she always dreaded the most.

He clutched the dog tag, the edges biting into his palm. The turmoil that threatened to break him apart shrank in the face of this new mission, solidifying into an indestructible drive that had him planning his next step with tactical precision. He turned to Nixon, straightening. His voice came out clear and strong.

"But I intend to find out."

* * *

 **Yay! It's the moment we've been waiting for! Joe to the rescue!**

 **:)**

 **Tori - Thanks! I really appreciate you taking the time to read it.**

 **Guest - The feels are the best thing, aren't they? Enjoy!**

 **Mngirl - It's so hard to read, I know! I hope this chapter was better!**


	34. Chapter 33

****Warning** Mature content ahead, including non consensual intimacy (non explicit)**

* * *

 _Everything is red._

 _Banners cascade down the walls. The carpet is thick under my feet. The podium is draped with a flag. All red._

 _It burns into my eyes, searing my retinas until I will never see another color._

 _Anne's blanket. Father's face. Mother's pajamas._

 _Blood red._

 _A man is at the podium, shouting words until flecks of spit hit the microphone. Things about glory. Things about victory. Things about Jews._

 _I don't blink. Dr. Mueller's hand rests on my shoulder, burning even through my uniform. Henrich is at my side. He smirks, watching the speech. He feels me looking and glances over. I turn my head quickly away._

 _I had been told what he did for his final test. His victims were Jews. He didn't use a gun. His knuckles are still bruised, weeks later._

 _The man is winding up, his voice booming even without the help of the speakers. He says Henrich's name, then mine. They echo past the wing where we are waiting. He says something about accomplishment, of a new era, and of the end of partisans. He mentions Dr. Mueller, who beams as he turns to us._

" _This is it. This is what I have been striving towards. You are my greatest creation. You will make me proud, won't you?"_

" _Yes sir."_

" _It is almost time. Remember, stand up straight and speak loudly and clearly."_

" _Yes sir."_

" _Welcome to the Nazi Party."_

 _The crowd claps and we are pushed forward. I feel my mouth pull into a smile. It's the only thing I can feel. A camera bulb flashes and white spots dance amongst the overwhelming red._

 _Words come out of my mouth, repeated without thought. I don't think about them. I don't remember them. More flashbulbs. The man beams at me. His teeth are brown and stained. His thick fingers tug on my lapel, punching the pin through the fabric. The swastika is barely bigger than my fingernail, but it sits heavily on my chest with the weight of a stone._

" _Heil Hitler!"_

 _Faintly, in the shadows lurking at the back of my mind, words whisper softly and sharply._

What have you done?

 _I keep smiling._

* * *

 _Winter comes and my fifteenth birthday passes without anyone noticing. We are busy, crisscrossing both the country and the new territories we have conquered, going from event to event. For now we are back in Berlin, in a hotel a few blocks from the Reichstag. Outside the sky is gray and cold, dropping snowflakes that stick to the window. My room is filled with flowers and letters, gifts from fans who read about us in the magazines. I sort through a stack of envelopes in front of me, using the hotel stationary to respond._

 _The letters are written in large, loopy penmanship, marked with splatters of ink from children still learning to write with fountain pens. About half, though, are from admirers around my age. Their simple, declarative notes still make them seem ages younger._

I've done my hair just like yours.

What shade of lipstick do you wear?

I think you are so pretty.

We are doing our part, like you said.

 _The door opens without a knock and Henrich enters, already dressed for the ceremony later tonight. The Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and Himmler was going to give a speech about how we were finally going to defeat the United States._

 _Americans. I don't know anything about them. I had heard their President Roosevelt's speech on the radio yesterday. A call to arms. They were angry. But I don't think too hard on it. It's not my place to cast doubt. I am here to smile and cheer certain victory._

 _Whatever that takes._

" _Why do you write all those fools back?" Henrich asks, flopping on the couch._

 _I shrug and turn back to my work. He rolls his eyes and fiddles with his Party pin. "I'm to visit my family tomorrow. You are going to come as well."_

 _My hand pauses. "Why?"_

" _You can guess why. They want to see you if you are to be my intended."_

 _A drop of ink, fat and black, splatters on the page. I turn back towards him, forgetting about the letter._

" _What in the world are you talking about?"_

 _He wrinkles his nose. "Don't be dumb, Caroline. It's the next step. It always has been. What better way to prove a Jew-lover like you has reformed? Make her marry a Lehmann."_

 _The scent of the flowers is sickly sweet and overwhelming, making me feel dizzy. I blink the feeling back, focusing on him. "Dr. Mueller has said no such thing. Stop playing games with me." I wait for his face to break into that obnoxious expression he has whenever he is teasing me. He looks annoyed instead._

" _He doesn't have to – it's what has been planned all along. It's the reason I recommended you for this program in the first place."_

 _The pen falls on the desktop with a loud clatter. What did he say? I stare at him. He did… he did… "You recommended me?" My voice is a high-pitched to my own ears._

 _Henrich's brow furrows, as if he is confused by my question. "Of course I did. When Dr. Mueller approached me to join he told me that I was to marry whatever girl passed his experiment. Luckily, I discovered what you were doing with those disgusting Jews just a few days later." He casually straightened his uniform tie. "Saved me from being stuck with some backcountry cow."_

" _Luckily," I repeat flatly. Luckily. Luckily he discovered – All of this was because of him. Everything. I knew it before, but as I watch his handsome face look at me smugly I remember how stupid I had been. I should have never trusted him. If I hadn't – "That's why you betrayed me, even though I was your friend, even though we have known each other since kindergarten – "_

" _Hey," he says sharply, clearly not liking my bitter tone. "Your dumb parents would have been exposed eventually. It's not like they were smart about it – people were already getting suspicious. If it weren't for me you would have been shot with them. You should be thanking me, if anything."_

"Thanking _you?" I am on my feet, approaching him. "For what? Destroying my life? Killing my family?" I stop in front of him, balling my hands into fists._

" _They were fucking traitors," he says harshly. "And so were you, if you had forgotten."_

 _"I haven't forgotten a damn thing," I find myself yelling, the anger that has been slowly building in the days I am forced to spend in his awful company exploding in a hot flood that has me clenching my fists to hit him. Henrich has been a leech, latched on to me and sucking the life from my body bit by bit ever since that night. He was at the root of everything that had happened._ It's all his fault.

 _Growling, he jumps to his feet and before I can react his hand swings, connecting with my cheek. I catch myself on a side table holding more vases of flowers that wobble under my landing. The side of my face burns as I twist back towards him, ready to fight if that's what he wants._

" _Don't you_ ever _raise your voice to me again," he tells me and the room chills under his cold vehemence._

 _I square off against him. "I hate you."_

 _Sneering at me, he smooths down his uniform and runs a hand over his pomaded hair. "Why? Because I 'killed your family?' That wasn't me, sweetheart. You pulled the trigger at least once."_

" _Go to hell." I step towards him._

" _Careful," he holds out a hand, his index finger raised in caution. "You are walking a very dangerous line, Caroline. One poorly chosen move and you will find yourself back at camp before sunset."_

 _I glare at him and hear the door open._

 _"What's going on in here?" Dr. Mueller asks. "I heard shouting."_

 _Henrich's icy gaze does not leave mine. "I was just informing Caroline that we were to visit my parents tomorrow, Herr Doctor."_

 _He wordlessly challenges me to contradict him. I want to. I want run out of this room and leave them and this disgusting smell of flowers behind._

 _But I can't. Henrich isn't lying. The specter of the camp looms large, sticking the words in my throat._

 _A triumphant, feral smile grows across his face._

 _I might as well be back in that room, slowly starving to death._

 _Trapped._

* * *

We are still speeding even though we have left the battle behind. I sink limply into the seat, not bothering to try to figure out where we are going. I already know.

Dr. Mueller is watching from beside me. I don't care.

"That was him, wasn't it?"

I don't move, not answering.

"Why didn't he come after you?"

My face aches. Because he hates me.

Any other time Dr. Mueller would punish me for not responding but now he just leans back against the seat, his eyes still on me. "You fell in love with a Jewish American who doesn't even love you back," he mutters, maybe to himself. His hand tightens and raps on his knee. "A complete failure of the program."

I would laugh if my jaw wasn't broken. Yes, it really was a total disaster. Everything was.

He continues as if we are having an actual conversation. "There were no red flags in the reports until last week. Were you aware you were being watched? What else have you done?"

I thought I was so alone out there, but there were eyes everywhere. How naïve. He even told me – " _I'll be watching."_

"All that time I spent, setting up the network. Everyone in that village reported every sighting of you to Schueller. He and Greta were a great team; I thought I had nothing to worry about."

He doesn't sound angry, only contemplative as his mind works through what had gone wrong to fix it for next time. _Next time._

A painful shiver works across my bones and I close my eyes, waiting for it to pass. Dr. Mueller falls silent and we sit in the uneasy quiet as the road twists through the woods. We aren't very far, I realize, only maybe a few hours away from the village. How much could he hope to accomplish in the time before the Americans reach us again?

His gloved hand closes around my wrist as if he hears my thoughts and he stretches my arm out to read the carved words. Another shiver, worse than the last, shakes my body.

 _Meine_.

"It is unfortunate that we had to leave so quickly, without Henrich or your files," he tells me and if it weren't for the pain in my face I would sneer in return. "We will just have to make do, won't we? You know the routine; I'm sure everything will fall into place once you are back where you belong."

His fingertips prod the wound and I swallow a whimper.

"Won't it, Caroline?"

A low groan makes it way past my swollen lips and the driver glances at us nervously in the rearview mirror. The pressure grows and I find myself clutching the door handle, but it doesn't open. Locked. My vision swims and I'm pulled closer to him. He doesn't seem to mind as my blood smudges on his uniform. The mustache twitches as he looks at me with something fierce shining behind his eyes.

"And then everything will be as it should once more, my dear."

* * *

 _I want to say that 1942 flew by in a procession of speeches, photographs, and parties. I want to say that getting out of bed every morning became easier with time._

 _At least at the camp there was a goal in sight – a chance to leave, for it all to end. All I had to do was believe and I did._

 _But now there is no such comfort. No goal, no reprieve. Just on and on in an endless line of smiles and carefully selected words. Did I still believe? Was I still dedicated to The Cause?_

 _I talked like I was. I told myself that I was._

 _Just the misery that welcomed each day said otherwise._

 _So 1942 passed achingly slowly, every day and every minute ticking by with uncaring patience. Sometimes I could feel it, the seconds counting like the beats of my heart. Telling me that this was it. This was the rest of my life passing with excruciating slowness around me for the years and decades ahead._

 _Waking hours were spent looking pretty, gluing an acceptable expression on my face until it ached. I felt ancient inside, even though the dresses I wore were frilly with girlish style and men pinched my cheeks like I was a child. Heedless of the scars hidden underneath the lace and tulle._

 _Youth lost, perished and decayed._

 _Henrich or Dr. Mueller were constantly at my side, guiding me through the crowds of uniforms at parties. People talked about me as if I wasn't there, congratulating Dr. Mueller for creating me as if I had sprung out of a lab rather than an actual human. But I didn't correct them. I did as I was told._

 _Nights were my only time to myself, holed up in my hotel rooms. As my sixteenth birthday loomed large Henrich's hints that our engagement was to become a reality became stronger and bolder. Now when we appeared together his hands strayed from my back to brush my bottom, too deliberate to be accidental. He stood closer so our bodies touched whenever we moved, and his gaze became warmer with something that was not kindness. And I couldn't stop it. I couldn't do anything._

" _It is natural," Dr. Mueller said when I complained. "You are to be married. This will make it all the more believable when the engagement is announced. You are to act as if you are in love."_

 _So the nights were when I was alone, if only because of the doors I ensured were locked against any unwelcome visitors._

 _And time lingered on._

* * *

 _We are in Prussia. Winter has come again, the chill in the air matching the cold dread slowly filling my chest. I stand outside the monolithic structure called the Wolf's Lair. A fitting name for this unwelcoming stone giant hidden in the woods. It rises over us, gray and foreboding, an ugly monument to an ugly dictator –_

 _No! Stop._

 _I grit my teeth, shaking my head to clear the dangerous thoughts that won't go away._

 _Servants unpack our car. Jews. Slaves. I see more of them, filing in and out of a tunnel next to the building like ants swarming a mound. They push wheelbarrows of dirt and stones to dump in the woods._

" _Be careful with that, you idiot!" Henrich snaps as one of Jews accidentally bangs his valise against the fender. The man, thin and pale under his cheap linen clothing, bows his head as his shoulders tremble slightly. He's expecting a blow._

 _But Henrich only glares before holding out his arm for me to take. I do, because I'm supposed to._

 _We are in uniform again, clad in stiff khaki. There is talk of Henrich joining the SS, where he would trade his for a suit of black adorned with skulls._

 _Fitting, if morbid._

 _Dr. Mueller comes up on my other side, looking down at me. "This might be the most important thing we have done, Caroline. You will be on your best behavior."_

 _Henrich looks at me as well and places his hand over my own resting inside his elbow. A courtly gesture to anyone watching. They can't see how his fingernails bite painfully into my skin._

" _Yes, sir," I answer._

 _A greeting party awaits us. I recognize most of the faces from the events we have attended, but I never remembered their names. All except for Joseph Goebbels, who waits for us in the middle of the group. His sunken, black eyes slide over my form but I keep myself steady despite the sudden squeamishness this creates. We all salute one another._

" _I am glad you made it," he tells us as he drops his arm. "I trust your journey was uneventful?"_

" _It was," Dr. Mueller answers. I stop listening as they lead us through the entrance and into the belly of the fortress. The sun's warmth is already weak through the screen of trees but when we step into the yawning entryway I immediately miss it as a deep chill from the frozen earth leaks through the walls._

 _A set of stairs plunging further into the depths greets us inside and as we make our way down them the windowless dark closes in despite the electric lights placed every few meters. I find myself gripping Henrich's arm tighter as we descend, depending on him to keep myself from letting the crushing horror of this place get to me and making me do or say something I will regret. He glances over, surprised, but says nothing. His grip on my hand loosens._

 _At the bottom, below ground level, the walls open up into a great room. Banners hang brilliantly on the walls, breaking up the stone with bloody streaks of red. Another group waits for us and Henrich violently straightens, clearing his throat with nervousness. I find myself doing the same._

 _Our Fuhrer is dressed in a gray suit, matching the gloomy atmosphere his stronghold created. In the film reels he always looks so passionate and formidable, but here he stands casually with his hands clasped behind him and his voice soft as he speaks to one of the advisors who buzz around him. He is not a tall giant like I pictured; his head barely meets those of the other men. As I watch he uses his left hand to gesture about something and it trembles slightly before he stuffs it in his pocket. His shoulders are rounded, making him look hunched forward._

 _He doesn't look like a fearsome conqueror._

 _He looks like an old man who should be playing chess in the park._

 _I swallow, keeping my face neutral, but my gaze sweeps around to see if anyone else has the same thoughts._

 _Nothing but eager, moonfaced expressions greet me and I turn back forward._

 _Hitler looks to us and we snap into a salute. He returns it with a delicate wave of his hand. "Welcome! We have been expecting you."_

" _It is a pleasure to be here, Mein Fuhrer," Dr. Mueller's voice is louder than usual and he stiffly motions towards us. "I am sure you have heard of my students, Henrich Lehmann and Caroline Alsbach."_

" _Ah, yes. It is wonderful to finally meet you two. Joseph has told me quite a bit of your accomplishments."_

 _Both he and Goebbels smile at us and I shift on my feet, not sure how to respond._

" _Thank you, Your Excellency." Henrich finally says for the both of us. I nod my head as well, forcing a pleased look on my face. Henrich's bicep is vibrating under my grip; he is almost more nervous than I am._

 _Hitler's eyes dance on me for a moment and I try to look unperturbed by all of this. Being in here with him – with all of this Nazi leadership – surrounded by these thick, subterranean walls feels like I'm a gazelle caged with a group of hungry lions._

" _I'm sure you are tired from your trip," Goebbels says. "Please allow us to see you to your rooms to refresh before dinner." He motions for another Jew to come forward, this one dressed in a traditional butler's suit. As Dr. Mueller conveys our thanks we are ushered through an exit on the other side of the room and into a long hallway lined with doors. Bedrooms, I discover, as the butler opens the first door to allow Dr. Mueller entry. We are housed in a row, with Henrich in the middle room._

 _My suitcase has already been unpacked, with my cocktail dress laid out for dinner. Since my birthday a week ago Dr. Mueller has done away with the childish frills; the dress is a deep emerald silk, sleeveless and backless despite the ever-present chill of this place._

 _I gulp looking at it. I knew once the engagement was formally announced there would be no hiding from Henrich, no matter what I wore. But Dr. Mueller seemed wont to encourage him regardless._

 _I wash my face and pull the pins out of my hair to brush it. I had gotten a perm before we left Berlin and the waves cascade down one side of my face. The hairdresser gushed that I looked like Veronica Lake. I had to stop myself from telling her to shave me bald. I don't want to look like Veronica Lake. I don't want anyone to look at me more than they already do._

 _We are still underground and despite knowing Henrich is on the other side of the thick wall I hear nothing. There are no windows and the air feels stale and damp. Outside of the washing stand, vanity, wardrobe, and the bed the room is bare of anything to pass the time with – no books or radio. Not that there would be any reception down here._

 _The bed mattress is springy and I lay back to stare at the ceiling. The headboard is a heavy slab of wood intricately carved with a maze of loops and swirls. Crowning the top is a gilded eagle, its wings spread as if to take flight and its beak open to shriek a call. It is set at an angle, so it stares down at me looking like it is about to attack._

 _Charming._

 _I get back to my feet and go to waste time laying out my toilette for the dinner. The room is so insulated that the clacking of my makeup containers hitting the marble top of the vanity is unnaturally noisy._

 _My door opens and Henrich appears in the mirror behind my reflection. I hadn't locked it._

" _Please knock before you come in," I tell him. "I could have been dressing."_

" _What does that matter to a fiancé?" he counters, looking around. He eyes the eagle with the same uncomfortable wariness that I did._

" _What do you want?" I turn towards him, wanting to get this over with._

 _For a moment he only looks at me before ultimately saying, "You seemed nervous back there."_

 _He comes closer, his hands in his pockets. The innocuous statement immediately has me on guard and I watch him carefully. "Of course I was. We were meeting our Fuhrer for the first time."_

 _He nods and falls silent once more, thinking. I raise an eyebrow at him. "Is there something else? I need to get ready."_

 _When he looks at me again his gaze is unreadable but his expression is almost remorseful. I draw back, my nervousness growing. "You've come a long way, you know," he tells me quietly, "from the shy girl I used to walk home from school."_

 _I stare at him and he scuffs his shoe against the hard floor. He has never brought up the past, the one before I was arrested. Why do it here? Why now? Why is he looking at me the way I remember, before he turned into a monster?_

 _I grip the back of the vanity chair until my fingertips sting. "Well, a lot has changed since then," I finally choke out._

" _Yes," he looks at the eagle again, that sadness intensifying. "You hate me now."_

 _He is acting so strangely that I don't know whether confirming or denying this sentiment will make him angry, so I stay silent instead._

 _Suddenly seeming to come back to himself, he coughs and unconsciously tugs on his uniform. "Yes, well, I imagine tonight is going to be quite stressful for both of us, more so than just now. Nothing like being on display like a prized racing horse, right?" He chuckles and I don't join him. "A lot of important people are going to be asking us a lot of questions. Dr. Mueller's hopes are resting on this. If the program is instituted in the Soviet Union he will be promoted to run it all."_

" _I know," I say and he smiles at me again. It makes me feel uneasy, despite his abruptly companionable demeanor._

" _I don't want you to feel like this is going to be a nightmare. We are sitting together at dinner and I'll stay close during cocktails afterwards. Just let me do the talking for both of us and we might survive tonight without the doctor killing us. Sound good?"_

" _Okay," I say softly, still not sure what to do. What had gotten into him? Why was he concerned about my welfare now when he himself caused me the most misery at the camp?_

 _He reaches out and I instinctively flinch, but his fingers only glide over my hair in a gentle gesture._

" _I'll come to retrieve you when the dinner gong rings."_

 _Then he is gone, leaving me staring confusedly in his wake._

* * *

There weren't any other other children after me, so I'm surprised to find the camp bustling with activity when we pull up. The flagpole is bare, but everything else looks the same. Exactly the same. I can't believe I'm back here. After everything that has happened it is inconceivable that I am somehow back here again.

As soon as the driver puts the car in park Dr. Mueller kicks open the door and hauls me out after him. My feet hardly touch the ground before he drags me across the grass lawn where I spent so many mornings exercising.

Through the dirty strands of my hair I surreptitiously look around to gain my bearings. The camp is far from civilization of any size, but the people who look curiously at us are dressed as normal civilians instead of uniforms. Who are they? Why are they at this godforsaken place?

We circle behind the academic building and I realize where we are going.

 _No no no no – not there –_

That blank-faced structure, sitting there in perfect condition. He couldn't mean to take me in there. To put me back in the one place where everything went so terribly wrong and where I damned myself with a simple movement of my finger. But he does. And he is.

He pulls open the door. The airless entry hall in the same. The same white paint on the walls. The same gray concrete floor. The smell is even the same – dust and long dried blood.

I make a halfhearted attempt to pull out of his grasp but Dr. Mueller doesn't slow. His boots snap sharply with every angry step towards the other door. That door. _The door._

A cry, garbled and anguished, pulls from deep in my gut, coming out of my broken face with an earsplitting wail. His face screws into a look of pure disgust and then I'm being thrown forwards, into the blackness of my nightmares.

I hit the ground limply and the door slams shut after me.

Not in here. Not in here. _Not in here._

The room is frozen in time. The table. The cut bindings. An old, blackened splatter.

I can't handle this. I can't take this. I have to get out. I have to –

Locked. The door is locked. My fingernails dig into the steel. I will claw my way out of here if I have to. I can't stay in here. _I can't, I can't, I can't!_

Blood streaks against the metal. I've torn the tips of my fingers. I'm howling, bawling like a screaming infant. No answers. No can hear me.

I kick at the door. Bash it with my fists. Dig more with my bleeding hands.

Nothing.

 _I'm sorry Mother._

* * *

 _The dress is cold. The food is tasteless. The company is excruciating._

 _We sit at a long table, our Fuhrer at the head. I'm sat between Henrich and Dr. Mueller. Goebbels and his wife sit directly across from us. Goebbels has been watching me the entire meal. I put down my silverware before they show how my hands are shaking._

" _You look lovely tonight, Caroline," he tells me._

" _Thank you, sir," I respond politely._

" _Quite different than that scrawny twelve year old Henrich brought to us, eh?" Dr. Mueller says congenially, drinking from his wine glass._

 _Henrich doesn't contribute, pushing his meal around his plate._

" _Yes, very much so," Goebbels agrees, his gaze growing blacker. His wife looks bored. I give up on attempting to eat and just try to smile back without revealing how rattled this was making me._

 _Me, the daughter of partisans, sitting a few seats away from Adolf Hitler and having Joseph Goebbels stare at me like he wanted me for dessert. It was overwhelming, more so than any screaming crowd of fans. Maybe because I knew that the kids who attended the rallies hadn't destroyed my life, that they weren't looking at me with the knowledge that I was completely under their control._

 _My fingers knot in the napkin on my lap and I stare down at my plate. It is traditional beef consommé with vegetables and sliced steak. The meat is rare and blood pools at top of the bowl._

 _A hand grabs my knee and I jump, making my dishes rattle. Dr. Mueller casts me a withering glance but no one else seems to notice. The hand doesn't move and after a moment I realize it is Henrich's. His thumb strokes across my knee cap from over my dress._

 _Is this supposed… supposed to be comforting?_

 _I wait a few more frozen seconds to see if it climbs higher. Henrich wasn't uncouth enough to molest me under the table, was he?_

 _Goebbels is still watching._

 _Henrich gives my knee one last squeeze and removes his hand._

 _Dr. Mueller nudges me none to gently with his elbow._

 _I pick up my spoon to keep eating._

* * *

" _Dr. Goebbels would like a private audience with you this evening," Dr. Mueller murmurs to me. After-dinner cocktails are being served and we mill around the same great room we encountered the Fuhrer in earlier._

 _I can't help book look over at Goebbels, who is downing a glass of schnapps while speaking to Göring across the room. A warning, intuitive and instinctual, rings in my mind._

" _Do you think that is appropriate?" Henrich asks from beside me. He has kept to his word, dutifully shuffling me from group to group and making all of the small talk so I don't have to struggle with coming up with things to say to these people._

" _That is not my place to say. We will do as he asks." Dr. Mueller is blasé as he takes a drink from one of the servants. "You will work your charms on him, Caroline. I need this program to go through."_

 _Henrich doesn't like this answer. I don't either. Dr. Mueller seems to know what Goebbels wants from me and it's the same thing that is making the hair on the back of my neck stand up in alarm. And he doesn't care._

 _I feel myself breathing faster. Henrich tugs me closer. Dr. Mueller splits off to go schmooze with someone else._

 _Goebbels, alone. I would be defenseless. The lamb and the wolf._

 _I think I am hyperventilating._

 _Henrich quickly pulls me into a corner before I have full blown panic attack. "We aren't sure what he wants, Caroline. It could be anything."_

" _Not with the way he has been looking at me," I heave, casting another glance at Goebbels. He is laughing about something._

 _Henrich bites the inside of his cheek as he looks at me. "Then you will just have to try to dissuade him. Don't let him corner you."_

" _I can't fight off Joseph Goebbels," I shoot back incredulously, panic leaking into my words. "He'll either kill me or Dr. Mueller will when he hears of it."_

 _Henrich curses, throwing a dark glare at the man who looks like he doesn't have a care in the world. Another servant passes by and Henrich snags a glass of something to press into my hand. "Drink. It will help calm you down. "_

 _The alcohol is burning and I cough, but I finish it in three large gulps. It makes my stomach feel warm and I take a deep breath, slowing my pounding heart. Henrich rubs my arm in a soothing gesture._

 _What is he doing? He has been acting like he suddenly gives a damn all evening. I move out of his reach. "Why are you being like this?"_

" _Like what?"_

 _I fidget with the empty glass. "Nice."_

" _Why wouldn't I be?" he smiles at me._

 _There are a thousand reasons why, chief among them the fact that he has never been before. And there is something behind his smile, something disconcerting._

" _You two," Dr. Mueller hisses as he walks by. "Get out of the corner and go socialize!"_

 _I grab another glass off a tray a passing waiter is carrying and Henrich leads me back into the crowd. As I down the second alcoholic drink I've had in my life I force my mind to go blank and not ruminate over Henrich's motivations, Goebbels plans, and Dr. Mueller's ambivalence._

 _It's the only way to stay sane._

* * *

The clang of metal sliding back echoes through the room.

I lift my head from where it rests on my knees and uncurl from the ball I made myself into in the far corner, as far away from the dark stain as I can get.

With a loud creak the door swings open, letting in a shaft of daylight from the other side. Dr. Mueller enters, followed by another figure who halts as soon as he sees me.

"You didn't tell me it was _her_ ," the man says and as my eyes slowly focus I recognize the village doctor.

"Does it matter?" Dr. Mueller asks, sounding exasperated.

The doctor takes a step forwards and I can already feel his anger filling the air. He points at Dr. Mueller accusingly. "You said that if I participated in your little plan you would ensure my family would get to Berlin safely if the village came under attack. I kept up my end of the bargain – nobody was friendly with her and the press didn't find her. But what have I gotten in return? A cot in some musty cabin not a few hours away from the battle. Not Berlin. We can still hear the explosions, for Christ's sake. You haven't told any of us how we are getting out of here."

"I'm working on it –"

"And now you want me to _treat_ her? Are you out of your mind?"

Dr. Mueller clenches his fists. "A truck is coming tomorrow to pick everyone up. If you and your family want to be allowed on it I suggest you stop running your mouth and start fixing her before I decide to find someone else." His words are growled menacingly.

"Tomorrow. Is that a promise?" The doctor answers stubbornly.

"Yes," Dr. Mueller responds tightly.

"Fine."

The doctor stomps over to me, yanking my face upright into his hands. His finger palpitate my injuries roughly, and the pain makes me whine.

"Shut up," he mutters before turning back to Dr. Mueller. "Her jaw isn't broken, only dislocated. Her cheek and her nose, though, might be."

"I just want her to be able to talk," he responds.

The doctor grunts in acknowledgment and without warning shoves the fingers of one of his hands in my mouth. The motion forces open my jaw and a cry of pain rips from my throat. His other hand comes up my neck to grip the joint by my ear. The fingers in my mouth move to mirror the same spot and with one hard jerk a cracking pop sounds through my head, followed by a wave of agony.

I fall forward as he withdraws, holding my face.

"The swelling should go down overnight and she will be able to talk tomorrow," I hear him say.

"Good."

"A truck tomorrow, right?"

A sigh. "Yes, I promise."

The door slams shut and I'm left alone again with the stain and the buzzing light bulb overhead.

* * *

 _In this underground prison it's impossible to tell time without a watch. But the hour is late, I know._

 _I know because the hallways are empty of anyone to help me. The great room is dark and silent._

 _The lights lining the walls are dimmed as they flash by on the edges of my vision. There is nowhere to run except back to my room._

 _But he will know to find me there._

 _I don't have a choice. I'll lock the door and never come out again._

 _Tears wet my face and I trip on the torn him of my dress, falling face first onto the ground. My hands catch me and I lay there for a moment, struggling to make sense of what has happened._

 _It was everything I was afraid of. It was all that and worse. His hands were everywhere, ripping at the green silk, his mouth –_

 _I suck in a wet, strangled breath. My arms are bruised from where he held me down. My neck is red with bite marks. My back is scraped from the things on his desk cutting into my flesh as he threw me onto it._

 _But he didn't win. He didn't._

 _A lucky shot, a swift kick between his legs, and I was free._

 _At least until he catches me again._

 _Then he is going to murder me and Dr. Mueller will spit on my grave._

 _Swallowing back another sob I try to lift myself off the floor. My room and my safety are a short distance away, so close –_

 _The door directly next to me swings open and I jerk my head over, dreading whoever I encounter next._

 _Henrich, still dressed in his uniform._

" _Shit." His eyes widen as he takes in my battered, hysterical appearance._

" _Shhhh!" I look behind me, watching for the moving shadows and echoing footsteps to show that I was being chased. He would be coming for me; I wouldn't be unpunished._

 _Henrich follows my gaze, his face twisting with fury. "Hide in my room," he tells me, before stepping out to lift me up. I gasp as he swings my legs over his arm to carry me through the threshold. His touch is gentle, his smell is familiar. Even if he has been nothing but a cruel bastard until now, being with him is infinitely more comforting than waiting alone in my stone chamber for that knock to sound at the door._

 _I lean into his chest as he kicks the door shut. I'm only sixteen. I shouldn't have to deal with this, with these lecherous men trying to take advantage of me. My body hurts. My eyes are burning. My chin quivers. Why me? Why does this have to happen to me? What did I ever do to earn this?_

 _Henrich doesn't put me down, instead stilling to look me over again with the same furious look on his face._

" _It was mine," he whispers to himself._

" _What?" I lean away from him. "What did you say?" What was his?_

 _He shakes his head, the anger receding into a sweet smile. "Nothing, sweetheart. Are you okay? Do I need to call a doctor?"_

" _No." I don't want anyone else to touch me, to see me this way. He nods and lowers me into a chair by his bed. On the table next to it is a decanter filled with an clear liquid. My hands are trembling hard as I take it, pull out the stopper, and lift it to my mouth._

 _The gin inside is bitter and reassuring. I take long swallows, desperate to wash away the disgusting feelings crawling over my skin. I feel it infuse into my insides, loosening the tangle of fear centering my brain._

" _What happened?" he asks._

 _I take another deep drink. He doesn't comment. "He asked me what I thought of the Wolf's Lair. I told him it was lovely." I pull a face. The pleasantries hadn't lasted long. When I close my eyes I see his black ones staring, mentally undressing me. I jerk them back open. "He said he had been watching me from afar since my arrest and that I had blossomed into a beautiful woman."_

 _The words are repulsively dirty in my mouth. I take another gulp. The bottle is almost empty. "Then he asked me if I was a virgin."_

 _Henrich's expression becomes upset again. "What did you say?"_

" _I didn't know what to do, so I said yes. The next thing I knew he was all over me." I drain the last drops, throwing my head back. The room tilts and swims. The gin was doing its job quickly since I didn't each much at dinner. I'm floating in a numb pool, finally. I can't feel anything, including how I want to go to sleep and never wake up again._

 _Henrich paces away from me, his face hard. He cracks his knuckles, deep in some black thoughts. I unsteadily watch him, wondering why he seems to be taking this just as hard as I am._

 _He punches his fist into his palm. "It was supposed to be mine. I was promised." He looks livid._

 _That phrase again. "What was supposed to be yours?"_

 _He doesn't seem to hear my question, punching his hand again. "He took your virginity, that asshole."_

" _No, he didn't." My tongue is thick and the words slur. God, I'm getting drunk._

 _Henrich freezes mid-step. "What? He didn't?"_

 _I wish there was more in this bottle. I stare at it disappointedly. "No. I got away."_

 _Alcohol is a sneaky crutch. It anesthetized me from my pain, but it made me blissfully unaware of the ominous change that immediately engulfs the room. Henrich closes in again. "You mean you are still a virgin?"_

 _The lights are suddenly bright. I'm probably going to be executed in the morning. I don't care. I slump forward, wanting to just be unconscious._

 _His cologne is noxious. A hand skims along my back and I feel him lift me again. "Stop," I tell him. "Just let me sleep here."_

" _I can't believe it. It's still mine," he chuckles from above me. I'm dizzy as he swings me around. But even underneath the thick blanket of gin that warning sounds again, the same one as before._

 _I feel my back meeting his bed. His shadow falls over me. His hands linger on my body. I squirm, turning to bury my face in the pillows. "Leave me alone, Henrich." He doesn't listen, pushing me back into the coverlet._

 _He sighs._ " _I was trying to be nice, Caroline. I was trying to avoid making this a fight. But unfortunately we have run out of time. Goebbels is probably going to come after you again. I need to ensure I get what's mine before he does."_

 _The words slither into my ears, his intent sharpening into a loud and clear message in my befuddled mind. My eyes shoot open and blink to bring to world back into some sense of focus. I find him undoing the buttons of his jacket._

" _Henrich –" I go to get up. He roughly shoves me back down._

" _Our engagement is to be announced on Christmas. This would have been coming sooner or later. By then you may have even been willing if tonight was any indication. You are a sucker for a gentleman." He laughs at his own joke and rips off his shirt. My head spins. Not again. I just… He can't…_

" _You were being nice to me just to… just to –" My voice is shaking and wavering._

 _He gives me a smirk. A cold, normal, and so Henrich-like smirk that my insides twist with realization._

" _I prefer these things to not be by force. But Goebbels has given me no choice. Just relax, Caroline. I promise everything will be fine."_

 _Another smile, so perverted and ugly. The smile of a man who won my virginity like it was nothing more than an object to be auctioned off. Like I wasn't worth anything more than who slept with me first._

 _I roll away from him, going to escape on the other side of the bed. But the fucking gin throws a wrench into my plans and instead of landing on my feet I wobblingly start to slide off head first. Hands grab my ankles and yank me back. I end up on my stomach. Shoving myself upward, I kick my feet out to strike him._

" _Don't do that!" he snaps at me. "I said I didn't want to fight you." I'm flattened as he pitches his weight on top of me, straddling my hips._

" _Then get the fuck off me!" I cry back, trying to buck him off. I'm not strong enough and I feel him rip at my dress. "Stop, please!"_

 _He doesn't listen, shoving my dress up to my waist. I'm screaming. Screaming in hopes that someone will save me, that someone will hear what is going on and help._

 _His hand grabs the back of my head and smothers my face in the pillows. "Shut up!"_

 _Pain, hot and barbaric, slices through my abdomen. Bile climbs up my throat, soaking the pillow as he presses my head even harder._

 _No one comes to the rescue._

 _The last four years have been a slow death, a dripping away of my life day by day in the slow sapping of the will to continue the farce Dr. Mueller orchestrated. But in that one moment, in that one instant, whatever remains bleeds dry in a blurred contortion of sweat, pain, and salty tears. I'm left cold and empty, alone and abandoned by even the remotest notion that somehow I will survive this. Behaving didn't spare me. Becoming a Nazi didn't spare me. Every action resulted in an equal measure of misery worse than the last. It doesn't matter who I was or what I overcame; the punishments doled out at my expense compound with every unending year I stay here, being the Nazi they want and the woman they work like a puppet on strings._

 _As Henrich's weight pushes into me I accept that the life I had traded for my survival was worse than anything I would find waiting in the hereafter. That the bargain with the Devil I made the moment Mother breathed her last was a fool's deal trading one Hell for another. I accept that the only way out now was the one that required the most courage and the most fear._

 _That night I decide that Dr. Mueller's experiment was broken and the only thing I could possibly do now was try to repair the damage I had caused._

 _That night I accept my eventual death with welcome arms._

* * *

 _The rest of the trip is encased in a gray fog. No one comments on the marks on my neck or the blemishes on my arms. Goebbels, perhaps having heard he was no longer going to be my first, doesn't approach me again. I don't care. One violation is no different than a dozen. Henrich still remains at my side, as composed as ever. I don't tell Dr. Mueller what has happened. I don't tell anyone. No one would care. The incident would be mine to bear alone._

 _Meetings are held, men talk to one another in terms of total war and the thousand year Reich. I stand silently, staring at nothing and letting the world revolve around me without a care to whether my input was needed or not. It usually wasn't._

 _In the vast blankness that settles over my mind occasionally the rogue thought rises to repeat itself._

Not anymore.

No longer.

 _The fog lingers after we return to Berlin and start on the speaking circuit one more. Deadening, blissful fog. It doesn't matter how much Dr. Mueller screams at me or how many times Henrich lets himself into my room at night. Twice I'm put in front of a microphone only to have my lips stay resolutely closed. Dr. Mueller threatens. He cajoles. He blackmails. But he doesn't have anything else to hold over me. The only benefit to having everything ripped away, including my own body, is that anything thereafter is child's play in comparison. Even Henrich's cruel viciousness is met with the blank stare that I wear like a second face._

 _I receive a ring. I don't wear it._

 _It isn't until February 1943 that things finally come to a head. A telegram. A single sentence. Dr. Mueller reads it out to me._

" _Due to the nature of your program our Fuhrer finds it unlikely to be successfully instituted on large populations and will not be proceeding with the plans you submitted."_

 _Goebbels, thwarted and frustrated, whispered the damning words in Hitler's ear. This was Henrich's fault for taking what was mine to give. And Dr. Mueller's, for not diverting Goebbels's debauched proclivities from the start._

 _But I'm the one who gets a vase angrily thrown into the side of my head, leaving a jagged scar down my temple. But I still don't bother with what they think, don't do anything except clean up the blood and bandage the wound. My thoughts instead revolve around my escape, of how I am going to break free of the chains I've allowed them to put on me._

 _Time is ticking. The tides of war are changing. The Allies are winning. North Africa is lost. Italy is under attack. The Russians bury us in Stalingrad. All I know is that the end is coming, either by my own hand or theirs._

 _Fall 1943. An invitation. Dr. Mueller giving us our instructions._

" _We are going to a new work camp called Kaufering."_

* * *

 **Okay. Deep breath everybody.**

 **I know I said that the lowest point was a couple of chapters ago, but this one turned out even worse. I'm sorry. The good news is that Caroline is pissed now and that doesn't bode well for everyone who wronged her.**

 **And Henrich is an asshole. But he will be getting his comeuppance very soon so stay tuned for some old fashioned vengeance to make things right again.**

 **Guests - Thank you for the reviews! I love that you are excited for this story!**

 **Oml - Haha, thanks for the compliment! I'm glad too that Joe doesn't hate her anymore.**


	35. Chapter 34

The breeze coming through the crumbled kitchen was sweet and warm, tasting of the first true burst of spring. It should have been a relief, one that meant nights spent huddled in icy foxholes, frostbitten fingers freezing to metal trigger guards and numb toes blackening inside boots, were over.

But he didn't notice. He sat at the breakfast table, ignoring the beautiful day to focus of the buzzing pace of thoughts running through his head. An empty pack of cigarettes, _J. Liebgott_ written on the bottom, played between his fingers in front of him. She must have come back here. Two spent butts lay cold on the table, surrounded by yet another dried splash of blood. And they must have arrested her here.

The pack crushed in his fist.

With the rate she seemed to be losing blood finding her alive might be a miracle in and of itself.

Nixon had insisted they come here. Joe had been ready to tear off to scour the countryside, but the intelligence officer decided to take a more methodical approach to find direct evidence of where she had gone. Caroline was valuable as an intelligence source, Joe had been told, and consequently he was leashed for the moment by the order to be patient. Fucking frustratingly so, even if having a high-ranking ally gave him leeway to focus on his mission that he wouldn't have otherwise. Although, truthfully, in the end he didn't really give a damn. Going AWOL to find her wasn't something he was averse to doing.

Maybe idiotically so, he could concede to himself. Searching for her would be impossible if he was fucking caught by the MPs after all.

So here he was, reluctantly.

Nixon was down in the basement now, sorting through the crap left behind for anything useful. Joe had already told him that there was nothing here of value, but apparently Nixon wanted to check anyway. That left Joe doomed to sit here, uncomfortably shifting back and forth, waiting for the next fucking step and trying not to explode with urgency.

Off in the distance there was movement through the trees. The recovery team extracting the victims of the downed bomber. Joe had kept at least one of the fucking promises he made.

If only one.

Fucking Christ. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his feet bouncing under the table. "Have you found anything, sir?" he shouted over to the open cellar door if only to surreptitiously speed up Nixon's rummaging.

A dark mop of hair popped through the opening. "No," Nixon replied disappointedly as he climbed out. "Not even a scrap of a letter. Nothing useful."

"She wasn't active while she was out here," Joe told him again. "She had almost nothing. If it weren't for the emergency kits I found in the plane we would have fucking starved." He kicked at the pieces of debris scattered under the table.

"This is worse than we thought," Nixon murmured, looking around again. "I wonder why they bothered keeping her alive." Outside of the initial file, he and Joe had just skimmed the rest of the box before starting their search. The analysts had finally arrived overnight and were going over it in more detail today. Nixon promised to send him a copy of the final report regarding the contents. Joe still hadn't decided if he was going to read it or not. The words he already saw made him feel like he was suffocating under the weight of his culpability; the rest might just be the nails on his coffin.

Especially if he couldn't save her this time.

Outside of a short reprieve to get a restless few hours of sleep at Nixon's command, most of the night was spent looking for Henrich in the mess of POWs herded together in a hastily constructed pen outside the village. He wasn't there. Nor was he at any of the medical stations or on the roster of the dead that had been collected.

Joe knew he was out there somewhere still. And it was increasingly looking like he would be the only one who could give them a lead.

"I think they eventually wanted her to come back, at least based on what I heard. Lehmann told her that he still planned for them to be married," he muttered lowly as he stood. He hated thinking about what he saw through the barn slats. "Are you ready to leave, sir?"

"I guess," Nixon answered, looking at the blood stain on the table and the other one a short distance away on the floor. "Is this all hers?"

Joe took a deep breath, tossing the crushed pack on the table. "No, it isn't."

He had given Nixon a short version of the events that had happened while he was here. He wasn't in the mood to elaborate earlier and even less so now. Luckily the other man just nodded. "Okay, let's get out of here. We can go through the POWs again in the daylight to see if Henrich has shown up."

Joe doubted it. Henrich was too crafty and too volatile to let himself get captured. More than likely he was holed up somewhere like the fucking rodent he was. But nevertheless Joe turned to follow Nixon out the door. They were wasting too much time, he thought irritably. The line was pushing north quickly, far faster than anyone had anticipated and Easy was poised to be moved back to the leading edge. Then finding Caroline was going to become all the more difficult unless he fucking stumbled across her somehow.

Not that this hadn't already happened once.

He made it a couple of steps before a last glance towards the kitchen had him stilling abruptly. A pile of plaster, wooden beams, and pieces of the cabinets was gathered in the middle of the floor, crowned by the dented sink basin. Resting at the bottom of the bowl was her splint, the one he had carefully tied onto her hand only a few nights ago. It was dirty and torn, but as he stared at it he couldn't believe he didn't notice it before.

The splint.

The _fucking_ splint.

A switch clicked in his brain, making him inhale sharply with the sudden emergence of the knowledge that had been staring him in the face this whole fucking time.

He had been so fucking stupid; the answer was obvious. He knew _exactly_ where Henrich was, for God's sake.

"Captain," he called, making Nixon halt at the door. "Do you think we could grab a couple more men?"

Nixon tilted his head in question. "Why?"

For the first time in days Joe felt something other than the foul, painful morass that sunk into him that awful day at Kaufering. As he stared at the splint, fueled by the sudden hope that he would get the answers he needed, a strange buoyant feeling suddenly bloomed in his chest.

"I'm going to fucking find her."

Tonight.

* * *

Greta's address was easy enough to get from the files. Her home was far enough from both Caroline's place and the village that it escaped without any major damage. It still looked occupied based on the chickens pecking around a coop behind the house and the laundry hung on the clothesline. Joe was actually a little surprised – most of the village was deserted when they fought through it, the inhabitants having clearly fled to the north. That old hag must've thought she'd be spared because she looked like a goddamn harmless grandmother or something.

Or she was still here because she had to care for a fucking injured _SS_ officer.

They parked down the road and were taking the rest of the way on foot to avoid giving any early warning. Joe was leading the mission – at the last minute Nixon had been pulled away for a briefing with Sink. The ever-dependable Sisk had joined when they asked for volunteers, as well as Janovec and Garcia. Web, thank fucking God, didn't raise his hand, although Joe doubted he would have been as irritating with a Captain authorizing things. Regardless, he already knew Web's opinion of him was at rock-bottom and what was about to happen would only add another few feet to that depth. Best to just avoid him entirely.

He was the only one of the group who spoke German. Nixon, perhaps sensing the unavoidable, gave him only one order as he headed out the door: _keep Henrich alive._ Fine. He could do that. Maybe.

Knowing that an avid Nazi like Henrich was inside, desperate like the trapped, injured animal he was, they fanned out as they approached the property with Sisk and Garcia circling around to the rear. Joe and Janovec crouched behind a budding azalea bush in the front. There was no movement to suggest their arrival was noticed and the curtains remained firmly closed. As Joe watched the house the twisted notion of what he was about to do had his muscles tightening with sweet anticipation. The thought of that blonde within his grasp was _fucking_ satisfying, admittedly, and his mouth nearly watered with eagerness.

Signaling to Janovec, he broke out from behind the bush and rushed up the path. Barely slowing as he leapt up the porch steps, he threw his weight behind one leg to kick open the door. With a raucous crack it gave way and he pulled his rifle up to his shoulder to push inside.

The interior was dark and still and his entrance was unwelcomed. A parlor was to his immediate right, stuffed to the brim with clunky, old fashioned furniture and heavy drapes. Through the slivers of sunlight coming through the cracks in the curtains he could tell it was empty.

Another loud crash sounded from the back and he knew Sisk and Garcia had made entry. His boots pounded heavily on the floorboards as he carefully went further inside, keeping his finger on the trigger. Straight ahead was a dining room, the massive polished table glinting in the weak light. It was also empty and as he looked around the pressing silence of the place closed in on him, making him pause in a flashing moment of anxiety that he had been wrong. That no one was here and he was back to fucking square one.

And that Caroline was dead.

His rifle rattled in his hands.

They had to be here. They had to be. He swept around the dark silence again. Son of a fuckin-

A soft creak emitted from the second floor and the sound of footsteps walked over his head.

His mind instantly emptied and he quickly moved with Janovec to investigate. The staircase was up ahead to his left, the bottom step just barely visible around the corner. He darted forward and swung around to face it, training his rifle at the figure standing at the top.

Greta.

She looked down at him, her face pinched and mean. Neither of them moved and he didn't lower his weapon.

"What do you want?" Her voice was unfriendly and furious, her face blank of recognition. He didn't respond.

He didn't need to.

It took her a moment. He was dressed in an American uniform again with a helmet covering half his head – a much different outfit than what he sported last time she saw him. But as he stood motionlessly at the bottom of the stairs the stern look on her face slowly gave way as she took in his features, melting into sudden confusion that had her straightening with alarm. He waited as she put it together. As she realized that she had much more to worry about than some Americans looting her place.

He saw the exact second she recognized who he was and made the connection of why he had to be here. The pure disbelief and horror that instantly marked her expression was disturbingly delightful to the blacker side of his nature straining past his fragile control.

He gave a large, nasty smile up at her. "Good to see you again, Greta."

Her chin moved, gulping like a fish, but nothing came out but a soft gasp. He took a step up towards her and she jumped at the sound of his foot on the step like she had been shot. Quickly spinning, she jetted across the landing to a hallway on the other side. He expected this and was already continuing up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Reaching the top, he saw her scurrying towards a door at the end. She had just thrown it open when he caught her by the collar, yanking her back into the hall.

"Unhand me!" she screeched at him, trying to twist away. Her struggle was more a nuisance than a problem and he lugged her back to the stairs where Janovec was waiting to help carry her down to the main floor. She continued to yell and claw at them until they finally reached the dining room and threw her into one of the chairs. She immediately went to get her feet and he shoved her back down. For being four-foot-nothing the shrew had quite the gusto.

He didn't beat around the bush. "Where are you hiding Henrich?"

She spit at him. "Go to hell, you Yankee son of a bitch."

His temper flared but he pushed it back down, pursing his lips. "This isn't the tactic you want to take, Greta. Tell me where he is and things will turn out much better for you."

Raising her chin, she challenged him. "Oh really? What are you going to do? Beat up an old woman?" she derided.

Sisk and Garcia came in from the kitchen, watching the exchange. Sisk was used to Joe's intentions by now and looked on coolly. Garcia was wide-eyed, trying to figure out what they were saying in German. Janovec leaned casually on the stair newel, smoking and not giving a damn one way or the other.

Turning back to Greta, he met her gaze for a long, threatening moment. She thought she was so fucking brave, assuming that her age somehow protected her from the consequences of all the shit she had pulled. From all the pain she had caused Caroline.

"She trusted you," he told her quietly.

"She was a fool," came the reply. Greta knew exactly what he was talking about and didn't bother to trying lie.

His mouth jerked with annoyance as he leaned over her, but he kept his voice even. "You are being reckless, Greta. I suggest you cooperative for your own good."

The wrinkled old bag gave him an infuriatingly pleased look that immediately started unwinding the red cord of hatred coiled tightly around his heart. He felt his fingertips dig into his palms. "You are never going to find her," she crowed at him. "She was a nothing but a dirty, Jew-loving whore –"

His hand lashed out without warning. She cowered despite how much she tried to stop herself, but he only landed his blow to the headrest behind her. The chair shuddered under the force but remained upright and a heavy silence encased the space between them in the seconds afterwards as she slowly cracked her eyes back open. Grabbing the armrests, he leaned down closer to her until they were inches apart, sneering as she stiffened.

"Maybe I'm not being _clear_ enough," he started, his voice still deceptively soft. "I don't care that you are a woman and I certainly don't give a shit that you are old. I am going to find Caroline. Your opinion on this and her is irrelevant to me. But what I do care about is that you are _in my way_."

A flash of courage made her huff at him but she wisely kept her mouth shut otherwise.

"Now I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt and think that maybe you have forgotten what I am prepared to do. Maybe our first encounter has slipped from your mind." He leaned in even closer, swarming around her and removing her space to breathe. "I was going to kill you, Greta," he whispered at her, not blinking. "I was going to bury that ax right into your fucking forehead and leave you there."

The air around them chilled with his emotionless, detached words and the hag's face slowly lost its color as his dark stare beat into her. He didn't care; he wanted Greta to know how close he was to heartlessly and effortlessly murdering her. That unless she didn't start talking the damage he was going to do to her was immeasurable in comparison to what she dreamed he was capable of. He was ready to have it out with Henrich; if the man couldn't be found there was just one person left to give him the information he wanted and she needed to know that there was no way she was going to escape in one piece. Even the Easy guys tensed as they watched, clearly unsettled despite not knowing what was being said.

"The only reason I didn't," he continued, "is because of that ' _Jew-loving whore_.' She saved your pathetic life. But now – " He pulled back abruptly, making her twitch in surprise, and tilted his head to consider her. "She's nowhere to be found. You just have me and those three soldiers over there. So trust me, nobody is going to stop me this time. Why don't you use some that fucking common sense you Germans are so proud of and tell me what I want to know before I run out of patience." He bit the last few words out, his fury and the disgust for her and this situation dripping through the cold well that centered him.

Greta thought about it. To her credit, she actually did. He saw her weigh the pros and cons in her head as he went silent to await her answer.

Not that he was surprised by what eventually came out of her mouth. Just behind her head, on the wall overlooking the table, a gigantic portrait of Hitler watched them with flat, blank eyes.

You can't make a horse drink, after all.

Jerking her head towards him, her eyes narrowed into slits as her face screwed into a malicious look. "He isn't here," she snapped. "So get out. I don't want a grubby Jew in my home."

Sighing, he shook his head at her. So be it. Fucking evil old witch. He didn't dignify her attempt to provoke him with a response and switched to English. "Janovec, make sure she doesn't move. Sisk and Garcia, tear this fucking place apart. If you find Henrich save him for me." He started towards the stairs, not sparing another glance at Greta.

Sisk and Garcia got the message and went into the parlor, followed shortly by the sounds of things crashing and breaking.

"What are they doing?" Greta asked Janovec in an irate voice. Janovec, not understanding, only threw her an uninterested look. Aggravated, the woman went to stand again. "I won't let you dirty Americans destroy my things – "

Janovec pushed her back into the chair. "Be quiet."

Satisfied that he was handling it, Joe proceeded up the stairs. Reaching the top, he turned to follow the path Greta had taken. He gave her the chance to run intentionally, knowing that she would instinctively go to the one person who might protect her.

Fucking Henrich.

The room she tried to enter was a bedroom. The plaster walls were whitewashed and a small bed sat in the middle of the wooden floor. A large trunk was pushed against the far wall and a washing stand was next to the window, the only other pieces of furniture. It appeared to be unoccupied – the bed was made and no toiletries were around the stand.

All the more suspicious.

He went to the window first to see if Greta had the crazy idea to try to climb out. The porch roof could provide a landing spot directly below, but the window frame was cemented shut by a thick coat of paint. Holding his rifle up again he turned and ripped open the closet door, but it was empty except for a stack of blankets on the shelf. The trunk just contained more blankets as well. Biting the inside of his cheek, he looked around again.

The sound of something large falling and shattering shook the house, followed by Greta shrieking more anti-American garbage. That was ironic considering how Caroline's house was torn apart twice by Greta's _friends_ in just the short time he'd known her.

He considered the bed for a second time, brows knitting together. It had been made hastily. The quilt wasn't put on evenly, with one side longer than the other. The pillows leaned into each other rather than sitting straight. It was odd and out of sync with the careful tidiness of the rest of the room.

Walking over, he ripped back the bedding.

A bloodstain, wet and fresh, soaked the upper half of the bottom sheet, the size and position consistent with a shoulder wound.

He fucking knew it.

Swiveling around, his eyes flitted through the room again. There weren't any suspicious seams in the walls or floor to suggest a hidden compartment. But there was no way they had time to both move Henrich to another room and make the bed before he encountered Greta at the top of the stairs. Henrich had to be in here.

 _The_ _trunk_.

He pulled open the lid again and began yanking out the blankets. About a foot down he hit a solid wood panel. Looking at the trunk's exterior, he realized the panel was too shallow, leaving a three foot tall space before the floor. He stood straight, frowning deeply at the false bottom.

Hiding like a fucking rat, just like he thought.

Shouldering his rifle, he pulled his pistol out from the holster at his waist and pressed the business end against the far upper corner where that fucker's head probably was. Not inward enough to actually hit anything, but that wasn't his goal.

At least not yet.

Another sharp bang of splintering furniture rocked the floor under his feet and Greta cried something unintelligible. The noise was disconcerting and in the brief break of quiet after the crash there was a telltale soft rustle, barely detectable, as someone shifted nervously underneath the wood.

He fired.

The sound was thunderous to his own ears, but to Henrich the explosion and rushing of the bullet through the narrow, confined space must have been ear-splitting. There was a scream and the panel flew upwards, narrowly missing Joe's head.

Henrich.

 _Fucking_ Henrich.

The blonde man shot up, a stream of blood gushing down his neck. He was shirtless and a mess of bandages covered his shoulder, a crisscross of gauze around his chest holding them in place. Disoriented, he hysterically swung a Walther P38 he held in his free hand around to find a target.

Joe caught his wrist and ripped the pistol away. Ejecting the magazine and the chambered bullet, he tossed the it onto the bed before crouching down to throw the trunk onto its side, making Henrich tumble out onto the bare floor in a mess of arms and legs. The bed squealed back a few inches as the Nazi slid into it and came to a stop flat on his stomach. His eyes were rolling in his head with pain and alarm and his legs curled inward as he tried to rise to get his feet under him. Joe let him, watching him placidly from above.

The call for blood immediately sang in his veins and he found himself stretching and clenching his hands at his sides as he stood there, resisting the urge to wring the man's neck immediately. Nixon may have taken the ultimate option off the table, but as Joe looked at the Nazi who had been responsible for so much of Caroline's misery he realized it was probably for the best that he couldn't rip Henrich apart limb by limb.

Death was an easy way out. Too easy, really.

There was a commotion coming up the stairs and seconds later Garcia and Sisk burst into the room, ready to shoot. Henrich jumped with discombobulation at the sight of them and fell back to the floor again.

"Joe?" Sisk questioned, looking at the struggling man and then at Joe in confusion.

"I found Henrich," Joe bit out, not looking away from the person in question. Henrich managed to make it to his knees once more and grabbed at the bed quilt to pull himself up. Joe didn't move to stop him. He wanted Henrich on his feet. He wanted a brawl.

 _Goddamn fucking_ Henrich.

Janovec's voice called out from the dining room. "Everything okay up there?"

"Fucking peachy," Joe muttered portentously as rolled his head towards his shoulders, popping the bones of his neck. This was going to be be brutal. It was going to be pure, unbridled vengeance. Henrich didn't notice the gathering furor coming towards him and dragged one foot up to stand. His bleeding ear dripped onto the flowered pattern of the quilt.

"We're fine," Sisk answered to Janovec, lowering his weapon. Garcia relaxed as well, but his gaze jumped apprehensively between Joe and the German.

"What do you need from us?" Joe really owed Sisk a year's rations of cigarettes after all this, not to mention all the beer the man could drink on their next leave. He followed Joe without complaint these last few days, stepping up when Webster was too goddamn chicken to take care of Eichelsdorfer, and now looked at Joe's next mark without batting an eye.

Not moving his gaze from the Nazi, Joe pulled his rifle off his shoulder and held it out for Sisk to take. His pistol followed. "Hold these while I deal with him."

He never planned to use weapons once he found Henrich. His rage was violent enough on its own.

Garcia stepped back towards the door. He was a good kid, Joe knew, and one of the few replacements that turned out to be a dependable and good soldier. But he never lost that doe-eyed look despite how much time he spent in combat and Joe innately knew he didn't want to watch what was going to happen. Garcia wouldn't say a word or interfere like Web, but he would blink and that was enough to make Joe want to spare him. Maybe it was because the guy was more Catholic than the fucking Pope, but it certainly kept him on an even keel. Men like he and Shifty were the lucky ones and any other time Joe would envy that strong moral streak.

Henrich was finally getting his bearings back and straightening, breathing heavily as he looked at the three of them.

Any other time. At this _exact_ moment, however, Joe was completely fucking fine being the brutal asshole he was.

"Garcia, go grab the jeep and pull it up front," he ordered unhurriedly as Henrich's blinked, some of the color returning to his face.

The other man looked slightly relieved and quickly made himself scarce. The front door closed and a heavy quiet fell over the house. Even downstairs; Janovec must've shut Greta up somehow. Sisk moved to block the doorway, leaning on the frame and leaving Joe to do what he had been waiting to do for what felt like a very long time.

Joe licked his lips, surveying his target while resting against the wall behind him with deliberate casualness. "How have you been, Henrich?"

"Who the fuck are you?" A snarl came through, even if Henrich's voice croaked and his legs wobbled.

Joe ignored the question. "Where is Caroline?"

"You busted my fucking eardrum!" the unfortunate bastard protested loudly, still not comprehending the gravity of the situation. He wiped at the blood running along his jaw.

Joe cracked his knuckles, hard. That was going to be the least of Henrich's worries. "Where…is… _Caroline?"_

The air in the room suddenly became very still. Henrich froze, hand suspended in midair, as the words finally registered. His icy blue eyes jumped to Joe's hard, brown ones.

"Who are you?" he repeated and shifted, equal parts trepidation and disbelief suddenly changing his stance as he stood against the bed.

Joe didn't answer right away. He let Henrich have a few more moments of easy obliviousness. One last second of ignorance towards how this was going to end. He began to carefully fold the sleeves of his shirt towards his elbows, letting the agony of anticipation linger in the air. He was going to break this man. He felt no guilt, no remorse. Even if this revenge wasn't going to be fair or merciful, he had a hard time seeing any wrongness in it. He was going to serve some sort of justice for Caroline. Do something besides forsake her and abandon her to the wolves. And he was going to enjoy it.

Finishing, he smiled leisurely, all teeth and anger. Henrich blinked. Reaching into his collar, Joe pulled out the chain around his neck.

The Star of David. The single dog tag.

Henrich's gaze shot to them and didn't move. Joe didn't blink across from him.

In the excruciating silence, the knowledge of who Joe was bored into Henrich with the same ferocity it struck Greta. And just like with Greta, Joe was patient. He waited for the facts to align for Henrich. For him to realize how compromised he was and how badly this was going to turn out for him.

"You." A shocked whisper.

"Me."

Another few seconds ticked by. The rise and fall of Henrich's chest became faster as he breathed hard out of his mouth.

" _Shit!_ " Henrich wheeled backwards, making for Sisk and the door. Sisk pointed Joe's pistol, but Joe lunged forward and caught Henrich by his bandaged shoulder before he managed to make it very far. The German's knees buckled and he went down like a bag of rocks, gasping in pain. Joe threw him against the wall where he slumped sideways in agony, clutching at the wound.

"I'm disappointed by a number of things, Henrich," Joe started, his voice growling with the rising tide of hatred filling his insides. His fingertips were stained with blood from the soaked bandage and he wiped them on his pant leg. "First is that you survived the artillery barrage at the line. It would have saved me a lot of trouble if you were nothing more than a fucking crater right now." He grabbed Henrich's arm to yank him upright against the wall and Henrich groaned. "Second is that I hoped to meet the loudmouthed, arrogant officer I saw taking pictures that afternoon at Caroline's. Instead I get this sniveling weasel." Kicking Henrich's feet apart, he crouched down to be eye level with him, pushing his helmet back on his head. "Lastly, not only did you miss _several_ times when you shot at me, I come to find you hiding in an old woman's house like a coward. I was eager that you would at least be _somewhat_ of a challenge."

Henrich's eyes shot open at Joe's derogatory tone and his body went rigid against the wall, just like Joe wanted. He wanted a fight. He wanted Henrich to try to use the same stupid authority he wielded with Caroline just so Joe could grind it into the dust and show him what a powerless waste of space he actually was.

Lifting his head, he looked Joe spitefully up and down. "So you're the one she loves," he spat, regaining some sharpness to his voice. "The fucking Jew."

A stabbing pain struck right in the middle of Joe's chest. _Loves_. Present tense. And such a look of resentment on Henrich's face that it didn't seem to be a mistake.

It wasn't possible. After what he had done there was no way she ever wanted to see him again. So why? Why would she tell them that? She must have known doing so would seal her fate.

Maybe she that is what she wanted.

... Maybe Joe had destroyed all the hope left in her.

For a brief second overwhelming heartache competed with his dark rage and he looked away, not letting Henrich see the mask slipping from his face.

He would find her. He would _fix_ this.

"That's right," he eventually said, relieved when his voice came out cold and steady.

"Why her?"

Raising an eyebrow, he faced Henrich again and leaned back on his heels. Being here, confronting an angry Nazi, Joe had been expecting to be called more names or hear some stupid babble about the Reich. Maybe a few threats too. He didn't care about that. But being asked for his reasons for doing all this? That wasn't any of Henrich's fucking business.

"Why not?" he decided to answer, sounding indifferent.

His laisse-fair attitude made Henrich's face grow red. "You could have had any other fucking woman in Europe, but you chose her. She was taken, you asshole."

He could still smell the hay of the barn when he thought back to that day. Could still picture her through the slats, being subjected to this man.

Advancing closer to the Nazi, his expression darkened. "Willingly?" he asked, his words taking a lethal quality even as he tried to remain composed. "Because I would guess the toes she nearly cut off would disagree."

Henrich's eyes tightened. "She is mine."

Joe stood then, taking off his helmet to toss on the bed and ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach that arose while listening to the way Henrich talked about her. It felt like they were arguing over livestock rather than a human. "No, Henrich. She isn't."

"She came back!" Henrich suddenly pushed forward to stand again, his face taking on a desperate, manic quality. "If she wanted to stay with you she would have. But she came back because she knew she wanted to be with me. You confused her." He took a threatening step towards Joe. "But she is fucking mine. I don't care about whatever you thought you had. She will always be mine."

Joe didn't say anything for a moment, his teeth grinding together. Henrich was deluded and with every word that came out his mouth about _her_ or how she was somehow _owned_ Joe grew more and more nervous about what she had endured.

"I saw her during the fight in the village," he threw back. "You were quite the welcoming committee. Do you honestly think she wanted to go back to that?"

Henrich's face instantly broke into a sick leer that had Joe bristling where he stood. "Well, I had to make sure this would never happen again, didn't I? I had to remind her what she was." He chuckled. "And she won't forget ever again."

The strange tone of his voice made Joe think of Caroline coming out of the dust once more. He remembered the blood. Her busted face. Her torn sleeve.

" _Miene_ ," Henrich whispered.

 _Meine?_ Mine.

What the fuck did -

Some strange knife marks –

 _Meine._

His feet faltered backwards, his jaw going slack. He felt the bed hit the back of his knees. Henrich had… he had –

 _Fucking carved into her?_

 _Caroline._

"Even if you do find her, she'll always be _meine_."

Henrich laughed. He _laughed_. The sound of it became a bitter taunt, digging under his skin to trigger something hideous. Something ugly.

Something deadly.

 _Carved into her -_

His hand grabbed the metal bed post. It squeaked and groaned but he didn't register what he was doing. He couldn't get air into his lungs. He couldn't hear anything other than that demented _laughter._

 _Caroline_.

 _God, Caroline._

Sisk straightened in the doorway, sensing something wrong.

Considering the warring chaos of emotions that had been running through him over the last 24 hours Joe thought he had been holding himself together remarkably well. He hadn't blown Greta's head off. He hadn't strangled Henrich to death yet. He thought the pit of fury he found when he laid eyes on Eichelsdorfer was the extent of the merciless side of him, the one that eventually led him to execute the blubbering, terrified fool in cold if virtuous blood. It was a controllable insanity. It was the side of him he was familiar with, a darkness he knew though never named. It was the same feeling that arose when he saw that company of _SS_ soldiers in Holland, though only more pitiless and fueled by a rage he never crossed before Kaufering.

But with that single pronouncement, with that proud grin on Henrich's face, and with that unhesitating confession something inside Joe snapped with a hard and resolute crack. The man stood there, smiling like an idiot at Joe's reaction and so unaware as Joe's mind crossed that final bridge into an entirely new and horrifying level of insolent and unstoppable wrath. A bolt of inhuman, animalistic ferocity shook through him and he felt the blood pulling back from his limbs to pool in a tangled mass in his gut. That deep well sucking the light from him morphed into a bottomless pit, descending downwards into nothing but hateful fire until he felt the Devil himself could emerge to inflict havoc and vengeance on a single person who was at the heart of everything evil that had happened to Caroline. Who was still looking at him with an overconfident gaze even as he admitted to holding her down and dragging a knife through her skin. As he felt his stomach drop out under him he realized that what he was really capable of was something even he himself never realized.

The feeling was consuming and wild, drawing the humanity out of him with a force so powerful that he couldn't stop it even if he was inclined to. And he wasn't.

Instead he found it welcoming. He found it ice cold.

"Where is she?" He choked out, asking one final time. One last sentence to slip past the closing door that sealed Henrich's fate to offer both of them a shot at mercy – Henrich from the unraveling will inside Joe to remain true to Nixon's order and Joe from the ultimate heavenly judgement that would narrow down to this single day.

Henrich didn't see it as the lifeline it was. He was blind to the danger rapidly filling the room, seeping into every crack and even dimming the sun coming through the window. Blind and stupid. He thought that he had somehow won. That mutilating Caroline meant that Joe's mission was pointless and powerless. He thought it saved him.

Wrong. So, so wrong.

Instead it was his annihilation.

Faintly, through the screen of red haze descending across his senses he heard Sisk urgently call for Janovec.

Joe cleared the small space between him and the German in less than a second. He saw his hand wrap around Henrich's throat, pushing him backwards until he was pinned against the wall. That conceited expression was ripped from the blonde man's face with every ounce of pressure Joe clamped around his airway, replaced by shock and alarm. His uninjured arm swung towards Joe's torso but Joe didn't feel the punch land. He didn't feel anything.

Bringing up his free hand, Joe grabbed at the bandages around Henrich's shoulder, ripping them away in one movement. Henrich tried to push himself off the wall and desperately clawed at the fist choking him, but to no avail. Joe didn't hesitate before he dug his fingertips deep into the oozing wound, sending a fresh volley of blood down Henrich's chest. Henrich spasmed, letting out a rasping scream as pain he never thought was possible burned into his brain. He jerked raggedly, coming off the wall. Joe slammed him back, his bloody palm fastening over Henrich's mouth and cutting off his cries.

"Shhh," Joe told him softly and unsympathetically, cooly meeting his frantic blue gaze. "The bullet I put through your shoulder just didn't leave enough of a mark. If you scarred Caroline for life it's only fair that I do the same to you, right?"

He didn't wait for an answer before he clawed into the angry bullet hole again, this time letting Henrich's howl ring loud and clear.

Sisk and Janovec were in the doorway now, watching him intently. He knew what they were doing. He knew they were afraid he was going to kill Henrich.

Maybe he was.

But Henrich needed to _suffer_ first.

"I saw everything that day." Joe said through locked teeth, glaring at the miserable man. "I was in the fucking barn and saw what you did to her. How you threw her around like _this_." He yanked Henrich off the wall and chucked him across the room where he bounced off the closet door and slid to the ground. Joe was there to catch him and jerk him back upright. Henrich made a move to pull away, panting for air, but Joe shoved him back against the door. A thick smear of blood appeared on the wood from the weeping shoulder wound. "And how you hit her like _this_." His fist landed on Henrich's jaw and the back of his head snapped backwards, leaving a dent to accompany the blood stain. "Then like _this_." The next blow was to Henrich's ribs. Something popped and Joe released the Nazi to crumple to the ground.

Henrich rolled onto all fours, coughing. Joe backed off, giving him a moment to recover. The longer he stayed conscious the more pain he could feel.

"Fuck you," Henrich managed to wheeze. "You think that just because you screwed that bitch you can just –"

Joe stomped forward, swinging his right leg back and kicking his boot into Henrich's midsection and causing him to collapse flat on the ground. "Her name is _Caroline_."

Henrich clenched his eyes shut in pain. Stepping over him, Joe grabbed him by the scruff of his neck to lift his head off the floor and talk in his ear. "She told me about you, you know. How you have always been a cruel bastard. She hated you and I have to admit I have been looking forward to finally getting my hands on you." He threw the blonde man's head down so his forehead bounced on the floorboards. Stepping back, he threw another kick into Henrich's torso that caused him to bring his knees into his chest, struggling to breathe. With his heel, Joe shoved him so he was laying on his back. "I just fucking wish you weren't so pathetic."

A dark red blush was spreading across Henrich's chest, matching another mark growing on his jaw. The shoulder wound continued to bleed unimpeded to puddle across the wood planks. Joe circled around him and felt nothing but the uncomfortable dissatisfaction that he had been too easy to beat the hell out of him. The darkness consuming him wanted more. More blood, more pain, more tears. More of a fight than this walloping was being.

"If you want to kill me then do it," Henrich heaved, looking up at him. "Fucking do it. But if you do you will never find out where she is."

Joe took a menacing step towards him, his hands itching. He wanted to kill Henrich. So intensely that he could barely grasp it. The devil inside told him to, teasing him with how gloriously wonderful it would be. Henrich didn't deserve to continue to live while Caroline was lost to a nightmare he couldn't imagine.

 _Kill him._

 _Rip him apart._

 _Caroline._

With a growl he ripped himself away. "So tell me where the fuck she is then," he hissed.

Caroline. This was all for Caroline. She needed him to not leave Henrich a pile of bones and gauze.

That's what I thought, asshole." Henrich smiled again, he teeth stained pink from his bitten tongue.

Joe squatted beside him, glaring. Oh yes, keep smiling. There was a fine line between killing someone and making them _wish_ they were dead, but Joe was prepared to walk it. Henrich had hurt Caroline too many times to count. Joe's hands balled into fists. He would fucking cause him enough pain -

Before he could do anything, though, Henrich spoke again as he tried to get back to his feet. His words were low and garbled, like he didn't think Joe could hear him or didn't know he was talking out loud.

"I don't know why you are even doing this. She wasn't that great in bed anyway. Fucking dead fish even when she wasn't fighting me."

 _Fucking what?_

Joe slammed a knee down on Henrich's chest, stopping movement. "What did you say?"

"Huh?" Henrich had realized his mistake and was playing dumb, eyes wide. Joe's fist flew in response and a gush of blood came out of Henrich's nose.

 _Fighting._ She had tried to fight him off. Nausea ripped at him. He knew it was a possibility. The skirmish against the barn wasn't unfamiliar to her. Henrich didn't let being told "no" stop him then. Why would it any other time?

But it had happened. _It_ had happened. She had been goddamned –

And this son of a bitch had fucking done it.

"What did you fucking say?" his voice rose, bouncing off the walls. Sisk took a step closer to them.

It only took a moment for Joe to determine that Henrich wasn't going to answer. He instead let out a loud whine, grabbing at his nose.

Joe was done playing around. The demonic blackness inside him exploded, taking complete control. He felt otherworldly; inhuman, without anything but damning wrath to fuel his unnatural hatred. A sound rose from his chest, a sound he didn't recognize.

A roar, animalistic and unforgiving.

He leapt to his feet, snatching Henrich up with him by the neck. The Nazi tried to lash out with a kick, but Joe flipped him around and grabbed the back of his trousers.

They faced the window.

"Joe!" Sisk shouted, rushing forward with Janovec close behind. It was too late.

Henrich was hurled through the air, shattering through the pane of glass without slowing and disappearing over the ledge.

A stunned silence sunk into the room as the remaining shards of the window dropped out of the frame to crash below. In it Joe could feel the blood pounding through his veins. Breath rushed in and out of his lungs. Blinking, he joined the other two as they looked out to see where Henrich had landed.

A splat of blood marked where his shoulder hit the porch roof before he rolled off. Now he lay in the yard, moaning and rocking in the grass.

"You can't kill him, Joe," Sisk told him.

"What the fuck was he saying?" Janovec added.

But Joe was already leaving, taking purposeful strides out the door. This wasn't finished.

"Joe!" Sisk called out again, but Joe didn't acknowledge him as he went down the stairs. He didn't slow.

Garcia was standing guard over the old woman. She was pale but unharmed, sitting nervously in the chair.

"You should have told me where she is, Greta," he thundered as he approached her. She blanched and jumped up, but before Garcia could move Joe already had her in his grip and was dragging her towards the door.

"What are you going to do?" she shouted at him, tripping over her own feet as he tugged her along. He threw open the door and pulled her out on the porch. The jeep was parked in the yard and he made his way over to it. Yanking her around, he shoved her against the front bumper.

"Move from this spot," he warned her, pointing a finger in her face, "and I will blow your fucking head off and leave you here to rot."

She gulped.

He didn't wait for her acknowledgement and spun towards his original victim.

Henrich still lay in the grass, holding the same arm that had the gunshot in the shoulder. His forearm was crooked. Broken.

"My arm," he was softly crying as Joe approached. "My fucking arm."

Joe grabbed the injured shoulder by the armpit and began pulling Henrich across the grass and closer to the jeep. With a high pitched wail Henrich tried to fight but he had no leverage as Joe ruthlessly hitched him along. Stopping once he was a few feet from Greta, he dropped Henrich in an unceremonious heap.

" _One_ of you is going to fucking tell me _where_ Caroline is," he roared at them. "I don't care who it is, but until I get what I want I am going to break _every_ goddamn bone in his body one by one."

Henrich kept whimpering. Greta shot him a disbelieving look. They both didn't speak.

"Fine." He kicked Henrich over on his stomach and pulled his functioning arm back and up until the shoulder blade bulged outwards. With hesitating he gave a merciless yank and there was a piercing pop as it dislocated.

Henrich screamed.

"Stop!" Greta cried.

"Tell me where the fuck she is!" he snarled in reply, moving over to the already injured shoulder. Henrich saw what he was doing and let out a wail of panic as he tried to move.

"No! Don't! Help me!" This time he spoke in English and he looked imploringly at the soldiers still on the porch. Blood smeared the grass around him.

"Now you want to beg?" Joe was beyond listening to the pleas. He was beyond caring that what he was doing was barbaric and cruel. It was nothing worse than what these two had done to Caroline and he felt no pity at the tears gathering in the Nazi's eyes as Joe snatched the broken limb.

A curse arose from one of the Americans but no one moved to stop what was happening. An _SS_ officer had no friends here. Instead they stood silently, unknowing what was going on other than the fact that Joe was taking some sort of revenge in an almost unwatchable fashion.

Henrich yelled again as Joe pulled the shattered arm straight. His feet hysterically kicked at the ground, his body thrashing in pain and terror. Joe put a boot on his back to keep him down.

"Not so fun being on the receiving end of this, is it?" he hissed, sinking his fingers into Henrich's shaking wrist. "Imagine how Caroline felt whenever you were-were... _son of a bitch!_ " With a deep growl he viciously yanked again and the resulting yell was the loudest yet as the other shoulder pulled out of socket. "I'm going to make you regret _ever_ touching her!"

He threw Henrich over on his back as the man wheezed, his face pink and twisted in agony. The bullet wound was gaping, joining the cuts caused by the glass of the window to paint his skin red. Joe moved down to the Nazi's feet, quickly pulling off one of his _SS_ boots. Turning the foot sideways to expose the ankle joint, he rested his own on it, ready to stomp down and shatter the fragile bones.

Greta was moving, sliding away from the bumper towards the road.

"Wayne!" he bellowed at Sisk, pointing at the old woman. "If she takes one more step put a bullet in her!"

Sisk pointed his rife. Greta froze.

"I wasn't fucking lying," he told her. "You are going stay here and watch what I do to him until I get an answer."

Greta slowly moved back to slump against the vehicle, quivering and looking to be on the verge of tears. But she still didn't speak.

Joe lifted his foot to bring it down on Henrich's ankle.

"Wait," came the weak protest. Henrich had stilled with the exception of his pitching chest, looking up at the sky with a resigned expression.

Joe paused.

The Nazi blinked. "She's at a camp," he said faintly, more blood staining his lips. His eyes remained fixed straight ahead and he didn't look at Joe.

"Shut up, Henrich!" Greta interrupted. "Don't betray your Fuhrer for these savages!"

Joe's head shot up to tell Sisk to silence her, but Henrich twisted his head to look at her. "You aren't the one getting torn fucking apart here!" he barked at her. "If he wants her this bad he can try to get her." He glanced back at Joe. "She is probably dead by now anyway." Joe's eyes narrowed, but the words weren't taunting. They were matter of fact.

"I guess we'll see," he replied tightly. "Where is it?"

"About 50 kilometers northwest of here. It was a _Hitlerjugend_ camp before Dr. Mueller took it over."

Joe lowered his foot. "Can you point it out on a map?"

The blonde man nodded. Greta made to interject again, but a black look Joe sent her way had her snapping her mouth shut.

Opening his jacket, Joe moved next to Henrich's head and pulled a map from the inside pocket to shove in the man's face. Henrich's eyes closed for a moment, his face telling of the painful damage Joe had caused, but when he opened them again they focused on the page without wavering.

"I can't fucking point thanks to you, but it's in grid C17, just south of the lake."

Joe looked at the map himself. The location was still on the German side of the line, but with the rate of the American advancement it was within reach if he could get Nixon to authorize the mission. "Who else is there with her?"

"Dr. Mueller and maybe a couple of soldiers. Right now the camp is mainly filled with civilians fleeing from the village."

"That's it?"

Henrich tried to shift and groaned. "Yes. There aren't a lot of men to spare for noncombat purposes right now, obviously."

Joe worked his jaw. "What is this doctor doing to her there?"

That question made Henrich stop and swallow nervously. "Some… retraining, I think." As Joe tensed he quickly continued. "I honestly don't know. I don't think he expected her to still be defiant after her arrest, so he could be doing anything."

"What do you mean, 'defiant'?"

Henrich winced and his throat bobbed again. When he spoke his voice was weaker. "We were expecting her to recant for helping you, to admit her mistake so we could start the reeducation process like we did last time." He took a breath. "But she was resisting. Said she would do it again if she could and that she loved you. You had quite the fucking effect on her." Some the fire returned to his expression and when he glanced at Joe it was full of hostility. "It's what is going to get her killed, you know. The doctor doesn't show mercy and if you have convinced her to fight then he will drive her straight into the ground."

Joe didn't let himself think about what Caroline had done. What she had told them. Later, when she was safe and he was alone, he might let himself wonder down that path of regret over what he made happen and pain over the idea that she still fought after he deserted her. But not now. Not when the rage and revulsion still burned within him and he still had her tormentors within his reach.

After all, the man below him was still alive - still breathing after all he had done to her - and that bothered him.

Deeply.

"From what I saw, you put her already halfway there," he muttered, standing and putting the map away. His eyes met Henrich's once more and the other man blanched at what he saw there. "And I'm not sure if _you_ are sorry for what you have done to her. Tell me, do you regret it now?"

Henrich's breathing picked up again. "Please!" More fucking begging. "You said if I told you – "

"Do _you_ fucking regret it, Henrich?"

Henrich tried to sit up but flopped back fruitlessly. "Yes! Yes, I do!"

"If I let you live, you will have to make me a promise."

"Anything!"

Joe shot back down, grabbing Henrich's neck and turning his face until they were almost nose to nose. The throat under his grip vibrated with panic.

"If I let you live, you have to promise me that you will never look at her, speak to her, or even say her fucking name again. Caroline is a stranger to you. You won't even _think_ about her, understood?"

His hand had tightened with every word and Henrich gasped out an affirmative.

"If I learn that you so much as _touched_ a strand of her hair I will rip your fingers off one by one. So do you promise?"

Henrich was turning red. He quickly nodded.

"Is she _yours_?"

The German's blue eyes widened. "No," he mouthed.

"I'm not sure I believe you. Is…she…yours?" More pressure, the muscles twitching under his palm.

" _No!"_ Henrich croaked, gasping for air.

It took every ounce of his willpower, but Joe managed to rip his hand away. Henrich coughed, then immediately gasped from the pain of his broken ribs. Standing again, Joe watched him heartlessly.

"Good. Get up. We're taking you back as a POW."

Relief made Henrich's features drop and with a word from Joe Garcia came forward to peel him off the ground. Joe left him there, making his way back to Greta. "Your turn, Greta."

The crone pressed backwards as he approached even though she was already against the jeep. "I don't know anything other than what Henrich has said, I swear!"

"Fine," Joe answered, "but I don't really appreciate your interference today. Nor am I particularly _fond_ of you fucking calling Schueller when you found me. I told you that you should cooperate but you haven't. So what do you _think_ I should do to you?"

"You are going to hurt me, aren't you?" she yelled towards him. "I should have known, your _people_ –"

He seized her arm, pulling her close. "I would suggest you don't say another word about my people, you fucking Kraut."

She was quivering in his grip despite her attitude. He could feel it. "What are you going to do?" she asked again in a whisper.

As an answer he tugged her around the side of the jeep and threw her into the back seat. "Don't move."

Henrich was being lugged over by Garcia. His head listed around uncontrollably and he took tentative, shaking steps. With Joe's help he was tucked into the back next to Greta. Janovec squeezed back there with them and Garcia sat up front with Joe. Sisk handed back over Joe's weapons as well as his helmet and climbed on the rear gunner position behind the prisoners.

Joe twisted around. "If they so much as blink wrong, shoot them," he instructed. Janovec and Sisk nodded firmly. For good measure Joe repeated himself in German. Greta kept a stony expression on her face. Henrich slumped forward, defeated. Fucking perfect.

He took them back north, but he wasn't heading back to the encampment. Not yet.

Greta did still need to be dealt with.

Caroline's place was just a few minutes away and appeared empty when he pulled in front of the gate. The missing wall had taken its toll and the entire structure was leaning back much farther than he remembered even that morning.

Joe threw the jeep into park.

"Stay here," he told the others. "This only take a minute." No one argued.

"Why are we here?" Greta called out uncertainly.

He climbed out of the car and walked around to pull her out. "I said it was your fucking turn, old woman."

As soon as the words left his mouth she stiffened and dug her heels under the seat in front of her, pulling away as he reached for her. "I won't let you abuse me, you monster! I won't let – " She was interrupted by Janovec reaching across the moaning Henrich to give her a hard shove at the same time Joe yanked, sending her flying onto the dirt path in front of the gate.

'When are you going to fucking learn to cooperate, Greta?" Joe chastised as he picked her up, not caring about the large scrape now descending down her temple. He led her through the gate and up to the porch to go inside, not bothered by her dragging feet.

As the door emphatically closed behind them he was silent in the sudden shadows of the interior. Greta was audibly sucking in air beside him and he could feel her racing pulse in the crook of her arm. She was terrified.

The cellar door was still open.

"I read Caroline's file," he told her ominously, his voice resounding through the stillness. "At least the summary of what happened after arrest. Do you know what Dr. Mueller did to her?"

Greta was hyperventilating now. She roughly shook her head. He pulled her over towards the door.

"He kept her locked in a room. For _months_. She didn't see the outside. She didn't see anyone but him."

Joe looked down at the black opening below them. Greta did too and her pulse leapt against his hand.

"He starved her. She experienced 'physical deterioration,' he wrote. I imagine it was like the Jews we found. Did you ever go to Kaufering?"

Another shake of her head, but he didn't believe it. He anticipated that she would be yelling at him by now, shouting more anti-Semitic epithets the Nazis had come up with over the years. But she remained painfully silent, staring down into the blackness.

"I can't imagine what it must be like, starving. Feeling yourself wasting away, your body turning to dust as it ate itself, and knowing that your days were numbered," he continued. "But the worst of it had the be the realization that help was not coming. No rescue, no reprieve. Picture yourself comprehending that no one cares about you and that all hope was futile."

He drew them closer to the opening. "It must have been terrifying. I can't help but think about her, such a young girl, and going through that. It's amazing that she turned out as well as she did, honestly, because that sort of thing seems like it would destroy a person, don't you think?"

Greta knew where this was going. "Please don't –"

"Don't what? Subject you to the torture you so easily perpetrated on everyone else? Make you take a dose of your own medicine? You were perfectly fine with it happening to other people, Greta, but it appears that you can't seem to handle it yourself. What a shame."

Without warning he shoved her forward and with a cry she fell in the hole. Part of him hoped that she would fall straight down to the floor and break her neck, but she grabbed onto the ladder at the last second, stopping herself.

"Don-don't do this," she cried, but he was already slamming the door down without a second thought, plunging her into the darkness. Keeping his weight on it, he grabbed at a heavy piece of the kitchen debris that was scattered nearby and dragged it over to hold the door down. Once that was in place he went towards the hole to take the large chunks of concrete that had been blasted from the foundation when the wall collapsed. One by one, he stacked them on the door, blocking her only route to escape. Underneath it all he could hear her banging against the wood uselessly and screaming things he couldn't make out.

He knew that once his anger subsided he would probably have someone come dig her out. But that would take a few days. Maybe a week.

That should be a good amount of time to experience the abyss. The entombing darkness that offers no comfort.

When the final rock was in place he took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tight knots of tension bunched through his muscles. He had a spot on a map. He had taken care of two of the three people who had done this to her.

Now he just needed to get to her.

Pulling out a cigarette, he flicked open his lighter. The flame trembled in his hands. His jaw smarted with the familiar ache his ferocious side triggered. But his anger was spent, the need for retribution bled out as his targets were eliminated.

He wandered over to the hole, looking at the lowering sun as the nicotine calmed his nerves. She was out there, within reach. If it was the last thing he would do he would see her safe. Forever.

The woods rose around the edges of the property, expanding with the shadows of evening. He thought about their fraught chase after he first met Greta and the overwhelming glut of relief when she took his hand.

He remembered tasting her lips for the first time.

The strands of her hair running through his fingers.

The first sly smile she gave him as she ate fucking lima beans without complaint.

The look on her face when he found her broach in the rubble.

He started, dropping his cigarette.

The _broach_. The comb and the watch. Her three most valuable possessions. They were still out there, in the bag stuffed into the goddamn tree trunk he passed as he tried to get ahead of her and Schueller.

In one movement he was leaping down to the rear yard and taking off towards the forest. What fucking tree was it?

The path was vaguely recognizable. He remembered the route of the road from the map he was given before the initial assault and had cut through the woods due north, knowing he would encounter a twist that would give him a good vantage point.

A fallen tree blocked his way. It was the same fucking tree he almost tripped over; he was going the right direction. Picking up speed, the familiar landmarks fueled his sudden need to find this fucking bag. It was irrational, but if he could find it then that was maybe some fateful sign that he would find her. He _had_ to find her.

There was a rocky outcropping ahead. That was _it_. That was the point where he had splayed out, waiting for the car to make its fateful pass by. He screeched to a halt, reversing course. That meant the tree was behind him somewhere. He slowed, looking for the one nook big enough to hold the old sack.

A pine tree was straight ahead. It had been hit by lightning at some point, leaving a jagged crack down its middle. Nevertheless the tree soldiered on, still green despite the scarring wound. The image instantly rang in his memory and he made for it.

At the base the crack widened, coated on each side by hardened sap.

And peeking out from the crevasse was the hint of a brown leather strap.

For the first time in days Joe felt a smile creeping across his mouth.

 _I will find you._

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Please review!**

 **Guest - I update about every two weeks, so stay tuned!**


	36. AN

Hi everyone!

I want to let you guys know that I haven't stopped this story or disappeared. I know it is a crappy thing to say that I update every two weeks then don't post a word for four. I'm sorry. I have had **the worst** writing block for chapter 35. That, plus grad school and a busy spring at work, means that I haven't kept up my normal schedule. I went on a Easter trip to visit family and brought the story along with the intention of pushing through, but even then I couldn't find the time or inspiration.

Anyways, I finally made some good progress today. I want to thank everyone who has read the story and reviewed, favorited, and/or followed thus far. When I doubt whether my first story is going completely off the rails I go back to these for reassurance that WFR isn't the dumpster fire that it sometimes feels like when writing it. And to those who have left all the thoughtful reviews, you have really made this a wonderful experience. Thank you so, so much.

I hope to get the next chapter up this week. Thanks you for your patience!

EI


	37. Chapter 35

**Yay! It's up!**

 **I have also went back and edited Ch. 34. Nothing changed plot wise, but some of the word repetition and awkward phrasing has been cleaned up, as well as a couple of paragraphs added to make the flow better.**

 **4/10 I went back to look at Ch. 34 and only like 1% of the changes I made were saved by the site! *sobs* So don't read it yet, I will redo it and post another note when it is changed.**

 **4/24 Its finally updated!**

* * *

 _Kaufering._

 _The sign is planted along the road, innocent-looking among the glowing leaves of autumn. My hands twist together in my lap. Henrich's arm is across the seatback from where he sits next to me, his hand resting lightly on the back of my neck despite the amount of distance I've put between us. I ignore it silently._

 _"Pull over here," Dr. Mueller directs the driver from the front. "This is a good spot to start."_

 _The doctor has been sullen in the months since the telegram. Sullen and cold, even compared to before. My sudden obstinacy grates against his moods and the summer had been long and painful. Even Henrich has been quiet around him, wary of his worsening disposition. I think he is looking forward to his SS training and freedom from us._

 _Not that it stops him from inflicting the worst upon me. At least the cooling weather means long sleeves to cover the rings of bruises around my arms in the shape of his hands._

 _My thoughts must come across my face and his hand tightens slightly on my neck, making me shudder. He looks to me crossly._

 _"Don't pull any of your shit this time, Caroline. Do what you are told and be nice."_

 _We are going to this place as a last resort. I'm supposed to understand that if I don't start cooperating again I am going to end up somewhere like it. A subversive. Just like my parents._

 _I am not sure if I would mind. I deserve it after what I've done._

 _Henrich is still glaring reproachfully at me and I give him wide, toothy smile sarcastically in return. "Like this?"_

 _His fingers dig into my neck and I hiss in pain._

 _"Stop it, you two," Dr. Mueller growls at us, throwing his door open. "Get out, Caroline."_

 _I cooperate only because for the time being it is easier than dealing with his anger. Tersely, he orders me to stand by the sign while the driver puts film in the camera. The spot on my neck where Henrich grabbed is hot and throbbing and I know I'll have another mark to cover. The scar on my temple is beginning to fade to pink so for once I don't have to turn that side of my face away during pictures._

 _"Smile," the driver calls out, holding up the camera. I flick my eyes over to Henrich, who scowls while he leans against the car, smoking. Testing my luck, I flash that same horrid grin. His expression devolves into a glower._

 _The flashbulb explodes. "Perfect," Dr. Mueller exclaims, for a moment looking less gloomy than usual. "I am glad to see that you have finally decided to come around."_

 _Hiding my sneer with a solemn nod, I make my way back to the car. Henrich throws his cigarette away and gives me a rough shove back into the rear seat. "Yes," he confirms derisively in my ear, "how wonderful of you."_

 _He is probably going to make me pay later. I don't reply to him and turn my head to watch out the window as we pull away and continue towards the camp._

 _As the road winds through the woods the driver opens the vent windows against the midday sun warming the stuffy, airless interior of the car. With the sudden breeze comes a distinct acidic tang that grows more powerful as we get closer to our destination. It immediately burns my throat and makes my eyes water._

 _"What is that?" Henrich asks loudly, fishing out a handkerchief to press to his nose. Dr. Mueller doesn't acknowledge him._

 _Ahead, a column of black smoke rises in the sky and the smell grows chokingly worse. The driver shifts in his seat uncomfortably, a green tinge coloring his face._

 _Apprehension curls in my stomach and I screw my fingers together again._

 _The road ends at a set of locked gates and a barbed wire fence stretching as far as I can see. We slow to a stop as a flurry of movement appears at the tower overlooking our car and a moment later a guard dressed in black rushes out to meet us. Dr. Mueller rolls down his window and the guard's eyes sweep through the car, lingering on me until Dr. Mueller shoves a wallet of credentials in his face to break his gaze. Henrich's hand is suddenly back on my neck, this time possessively._

 _"We are the Mueller party, here for a scheduled tour," the doctor says sourly._

 _"Of course," the guard responds, recovering and taking the papers. Flipping through them quickly, he looks in the car again. "It is a pleasure to have you here." His eyes meet mine for a second time. "Especially you, Fraulein Alsbach. I must warn you that you might be inundated with autograph requests." Cracking a smile, he hands the wallet back to Dr. Mueller. "The men here have been looking forward to your arrival."_

 _He's harmless, but Henrich nearly growls next to me._

 _"I am sure they are," Dr. Mueller cuts in before Henrich can cause a scene. "If you would be so kind as to show us the way…"_

 _The guard clears his throat and points somewhere past the fence. "Give me a moment to tell them to open the gate and you can drive through. Take your first left and park in front of the administration building at the end. The kommandant will meet you there."_

 _Dr. Mueller gives a curt nod and rolls up his window without offering thanks. As the gates creak open he twists back to face us._

 _"Control yourself, Lehmann," he snaps. "We can't afford another mess up like the Wolf's Lair."_

 _"He was fucking drooling over her!" Henrich says back just as angrily. "You are the one who won't make her wear the fucking engagement ring."_

 _I set my jaw as both of their gazes fall to me and we start forward into the camp. "I won't."_

 _Henrich's hand balls into a fist. "You're fucking mine, Caroline. It's past time you accept it."_

 _"Never," I hiss back._

 _He grabs my arm, tugging me over towards him. "You little bitch – "_

 _"Enough!" Dr. Mueller roars and Henrich lets go of me immediately. "I'm sick of this and of both of you. Henrich, if you want to join the SS grow up and conduct yourself like an officer. No more cursing and grabbing women in public. Caroline, if you are going to be stubborn so be it. You and Henrich are going to be married the minute we return to Berlin."_

 _I feel my jaw drop and fall back against the seat. This is not the plan. I have more time than – "What? You said that you were going to wait –"_

 _"I know what I said. But if you are going to behave this way your eighteenth birthday won't come soon enough. Prussia was a disaster and you on the verge of ruining this too. Maybe being married to Henrich will straighten you out once and for all. I don't want to hear another word about it."_

 _Henrich turns towards me, his expression slimy and delighted. "Well, I must say that is the best news I've ever heard,_ dear," _he jeers._

 _Before I can respond we are stopping in front of the administration building and I'm pulled out. A fat man, his chest shiny with metals and ribbons, waits for us at the entry. He starts talking as soon as he sees us, but his words are lost in the teeming anxiety rapidly muffling everything except my racing pulse in my ears. Married. Henrich and I are actually going to be married. Probably before the week is out._

 _I feel his presence next to me, hot and disconcerting. His authority would supplant Dr. Mueller's and the slow torment until now is going to become constant, unstoppable suffering. He'll break my fingers until I wear the ring. He'll break my body until I am disposable. He'll break my will until I am nothing but a slave._

 _I can't let that happen._

 _We are walking, Henrich holding onto my elbow firmly, and the fat man pointing out things as we go. The smell is intensely awful but he doesn't seem to notice. Even Dr. Mueller wipes his nose carefully. Remotely I hear the kommandant point out the guard's quarters, more administration buildings, and the employee mess. The area seems empty except for us._

 _The sun is bouncing off of Henrich's blonde, oiled air, bright in a mirror shine. Staring at him I remember our last night in Berlin before coming here. Merciless and brutal in the unhelping isolation of my hotel room. Locks don't stop him now. Neither does my resistance, sober – unlike the first night – and unrelenting no matter what._

 _I'll kill myself before I take those vows._

 _The leader of our little tour group swings around the corner, leaving the staff area for the main yard of the camp. Unlike the buildings behind us this space is teeming with people._

 _The rotting and diseased air hangs over them in a toxic cloud._

 _The kommandant makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, presenting the sight before us like a prize in a lottery drawing._

 _Henrich stops pulling me and I stop moving. The writhing, recoiling collection of men before us move in a real play of Dante's Hell, a scene of horror and disgusting perversion of basic human dignity presided over by men in uniforms identical to my own. As I suck in another sharp breath of the venomous poison curling around us I take in the spectacle of absolute, abject suffering._

 _I was not blind. Nor was I stupid child any longer. I knew what was going on. I knew what the Final Solution entailed._

 _But somehow it never seemed real. It was something done Somewhere Else to Other People. Something that earned my pity and faint revulsion, but not something I could afford to take a stand against and certainly not something I could voice an opinion in opposition. Dr. Mueller may tolerate my current disobedience for whatever reason, but softening once more towards Jews?_

 _A shudder claws down my back. There are things he would do that even I was still afraid of._

 _It was easier before, though. When the Jews were pictures in the books and fuzzy memories from my previous life. Shouting anti-Semitism on command took nothing because it meant nothing. Just words that I knew would spare me the physical pain I was so tired of bearing. The beliefs that came along with them? By the end of the camp that was lumped in with my depressing defeat on everything else I capitulated. Everyone was dead and life meant nothing. What did it matter what I thought?_

 _But ignorance was a blissful dream bound to shatter as soon as I accepted the one thing damning me for eternity. If only I had known. If only I realized how much worse it was going to get and that the mental sacrifices I made then would compound my misery now. If I held out, even silently, at least I would have my own moral righteousness to give me comfort in the unending and unbearable days._

 _But I didn't._

 _I killed my mother. I hated Jews. I became a Nazi._

 _Now I have nothing but condemnation to haunt me when I close my eyes. Condemnation all the more deserving by what is faces us as we stand behind the smiling, bragging kommandant._

 _Poor men. Human beings, broken down and ground into unspeakably wretched ghosts._

 _They dirty, slovenly, and wasted to bones. They rush to and fro across the yard with their heads bowed and their shoulders curved forward. Their eyes never leave the ground and they don't react to our presence. Buzzing from place to place, carrying tools or running with their hands empty, they are like an ant hill that has been stepped on, moving furiously and frantically if ultimately fruitlessly._

 _Jews._

 _Imprisoned and enslaved. Dying before me, slowly with every breath shortened by starvation and hardship._

 _By us._

 _By me._

 _The Final Solution in practice and it is more horrible than I could have ever conceived. Not that this was any excuse. I had none. I was complicit in the genocide executing itself directly in front of me the moment I gave in I stepped on that stage and said that oath._

 _What have I lowered myself to? What part of my decency as a person have I sacrificed?_

All of it.

 _The face of it is revolting and wrenching, physically throwing me forward until I'm bent in half, arms wrapped around my middle and my forehead at my knees. The face of what we have done and what we accomplished. What our glorious and brilliant Fuhrer has convinced us to do._

 _Racial extermination._

 _What is happening was distant in the black and white of the books and newspapers. Simple to dismiss and continue to wallow in what directly made me depressed. I understood that the Reich was Germany's return to glory. Our victories were what we deserved as restitution for the wrongs of The Great War. I, along with every German, wanted to return to our place in the sun we deserved according to our history books. Our Lebensraum._

 _But through this? Doing this? This…this was not what victory looks like._

 _This is evil. This is the wrong side of history._

We _are the_ enemy _. The ones who must lose for the good of everyone else. Everything was backwards and upside down. Do villains become self-aware? Is there ever a moment when one realizes the magnitude of destruction and criminal violence his will has caused?_

 _My God. I had been so wrapped up in the day-to-day of my circumstances that I allowed myself to be completely oblivious. Me, the daughter of people who knew what the stakes were and sacrificed their lives trying to do the_ right _thing._

 _And in their memory I turned a blind eye to everything and spilled their blood with my own hands._

 _Henrich is cranking me back upright, whispering furiously in my ear. We are in the back of the group, behind the other camp officers and Dr. Mueller. No one notices that I'm nearly falling until his angry tone breaks over the din of the desolation happening before us._

 _"Frauline Alsbach?" the kommandant calls. "Are you alright?"_

 _I wipe my face with my gloved hands. They come away wet._

 _"This is her first visit to a concentration camp, sir," Henrich answers for me. "I'm afraid the sights and… odors might be a touch overwhelming."_

 _His hurting handle on me belies his apologetic tone._

 _"Of course," the man answers, his voice condescending and unimpressed. "I have found it hard for women to understand what we are doing here. They don't have the stomach for war or for what it takes to achieve total victory."_

 _He gives an arrogant smile and I can't force myself to glare back. He lives here and walks among this every day. How can he possibly rectify this with his own humanity? How depraved does he have to be to do this to these innocent people?_

 _But my knees are still quivering and I'm grateful that he continues to drone on about the camp rather than call me out further. I immediately blink my eyes to clear them when I catch him looking at me again. I won't have another mouth-breathing Nazi officer treat me like a dumb, tepid piece of meat._

 _I need to figure out what to do._

 _"I don't want to stress Frauline Alsbach further by taking you into the crematorium," the kommandant continues, chuckling, "but it was designed to be the first of its kind – able to handle volumes before now unknown. Auschwitz-Birkenau has four crematoria that handle 60,000 units a year each. Ours handles 90,000 alone."_

 _Henrich's hold on me stiffens as if he expects me to collapse again. I nearly do. Units. Not bodies, not people. Units. 90,000. There weren't that many prisoners total in this place. How many more were going to come? How many more were going to be sentenced to death?_

 _Shoes scrape on gravel and we are moving forwards, into the ill-fated mass of Jews. There are shouts of orders and everything stills suddenly and severely. Frozen, they stop in the middle of their movements, their heads lowered respectfully towards us. As we drift through this motionless sea of men, Henrich dragging me along and the kommandant bloviating onward, I look around helplessly._

 _What can I do? What can I, one person who can't even help herself, do?_

 _"Ahead of us in the work house. The Jews have proven to be proficient workers given the proper motivation. This one produces ammunition – 50,000 rounds last month. A camp record."_

 _We enter a building that ads a layer of metallic vapor to the stench of destruction. The workers stop immediately much like the ones outside. A line of presses, steaming and roaring, fill the open space in neat rows. At their feet sit boxes of freshly made bullets. The prisoners here doff their dirty cloth caps and bow towards us. Their slight figures tremble at our presence. Powdered lead and aluminum coats their skin, giving them a silver hue on their already ill pallor. Disgust roils through my chest. This is intolerable,_

 _"The men here look emaciated, Herr Kommandant," I finally say, pulling myself away from Henrich. "Are they fed the same rations as the civilian munitions workers?"_

 _The kommandant's smile dims slightly and Dr. Mueller whips his head around to glare at me, patent exasperation on his face._

 _"What the fuck are you doing?" Henrich whispers to me again. His hand cuts into the flesh of my arm once more but I don't let myself react._

 _"No, Frauline," the kommandant answers slowly. "The civilians are hard workers and patriots. They need no further enticement to maximize their output. The common Jew does not possess these qualities, so we must do our best to try to incentivize them to work despite their natural disinclination. Food has been shown to be the most effective method to do this."_

 _"But aren't you naturally diminishing the possible amount of bullets they can make? After all, starving men can't possibly work as quickly or accurately as fully energized ones. It seems counterintuitive."_

 _"Caroline…" Dr. Mueller warns lowly in my other ear, coming to stand on the other side of me._

 _"To one inexperienced in the way of the Jews, perhaps," the kommandant rebuts. "But you must understand, Frauline, that a Jew won't work without it being a life or death matter."_

 _"Well these men are working and they clearly are still dying, so where is the incentive?"_

 _Henrich goes rock still beside me, his grip cutting off my circulation. Dr. Mueller grabs my free arm equally painfully. There is a tense pause. The kommandant's smile has disappeared._

 _"Do not mind her, Herr Kommandant," Dr. Mueller fills in, speaking quickly. "Her duties have been mainly concerned with the war effort on the home front thus far, not with the Jewish question. This tour was to introduce her to this aspect of our efforts and I'm afraid she simply doesn't understand. Please forgive us."_

 _"Of course," the man responds after another pause. "I can see why you selected her for the propaganda, Mueller – such a pretty face and wonderful Aryan features. But perhaps next time choose one with a little more sense, right?"_

 _I open my mouth to tell him being pretty and dumb is better than fat and sadistic, but Henrich suddenly wraps a tight arm around my waist. The movement pinches the fresh, deep bruise along my back he gave me when he threw me against a bedpost the night prior. I flinch, the words withering in my throat with the ache, and he takes the opportunity to forcibly laugh towards the rest of the assembly of men. "Yes, lesson learned. Please continue and I shall take a moment to try to explain this to her. We will catch up to you shortly."_

 _Smile tentatively back in place, the kommandant nods in assent and proceeds towards the door at the far end of the row. One meaningful look at Henrich later Dr. Mueller leaves us to follow. That's when I realize that whatever is about to happen is going to be ugly despite the fact that we are in public and Dr. Mueller's lecture not half an hour ago._

 _As the door closes and Henrich and I are left alone I brace myself for what he is going to do. In the corner of my eye I see the Jew closest to us swallow nervously, looking furtively at us as he keeps his head down._

 _"Return to your work!" Henrich barks at everyone. Without hesitating they turn back to the presses and the loud grinding of mechanical gears starts up once more._

 _"What do you think you can do to me here?" I mutter towards him, pushing back the automatic trepidation he causes. His mouth curls downward._

 _"You think you are so smart. Do you even remember why we are here? Do you want to end up in a place like this?"_

 _Has he been to one of these camps before? Not that he has shown much compassion or empathy ever, but he hasn't so much as blinked at what we are seeing. "Look at these people! How can you be okay with this?" My voice rises over the whistle of steam and clanking of metal._

 _He scoffs. "Why wouldn't I be? They are Jews. You were fine with it until now, so don't get all fucking holier-than-thou with me, Caroline."_

 _"I wasn't told – I didn't realize –"_

 _Henrich pushes me back, until I'm against the wall behind us. "You knew exactly what this was, Caroline. It's exactly what we were taught. You were shouting answers just as loudly as I when we were asked what should happen to the Jews. Cold feet now just makes you a coward."_

 _My eyes search through the room again, watching their skeletal figures work the machines. "You don't know what it's like to be slowly starved, Henrich. It nearly drove me mad and I was only deprived a few weeks. This is barbaric –"_

 _His hand grips my chin, yanking my face back until he is only a breath away. His other grabs the hair at the base of my neck, painfully holding me in place. Pressing me against the wall, his words are low and furious._

 _"_ This _is what has to happen, Caroline. Just like what happened to you and what happened to your parents had to happen. We aren't going to tolerate these Jewish swine ruining our country just like we aren't going to allow subversives like your family help them. If you don't see that then perhaps we need to have a longer conversation somewhere more private, wouldn't you agree? If Dr. Mueller's training didn't beat the partisanship out of you then I will."_

 _"Let go of me," I shoot back at him, eyes watering. "Your threats don't scare me."_

 _His face moves in even closer. The smell of him is repellant. "You are going to get sent to a place like this, Caroline. We are at the edge of giving up on you."_

 _"Then do it. Dr. Mueller can't afford the embarrassment of admitting failure, not after I've become so popular. And do you want it known that your_ wife _is here? Prove that you aren't bluffing and do it," I spit at him._

 _His response is to let out a furious grunt and swing my head back until it hits the wall with a loud crack. White flashes explode behind my eyes and when he lets go of me I feel my knees hit the hard concrete floor._

 _"You are lucky we are short on time," he growls. "Put yourself back together and meet me back outside. We need to take photographs." I hear him stomp away and the door slam shut shortly afterwards._

* * *

Sometimes, in the floating comfort of unconsciousness, the dead stay silent. Sometimes they break their tormenting haunts away for a flashing moment of welcome peace. It used to be those moments were filled with nothing but blank and quiet nothingness. Now they contain Joe.

"Caroline."

The voice is hollow and distant, ringing from the outside of the closed sphere containing us, and easy to ignore.

This should be as painful as any other memory of things lost and destroyed, but only elation and warm affection infuse the bright and blurred air. Rather than a nightmare to be borne until an awakening rescues me, I cling to the sight of him in front of me and feel my physical self curling deeper into the cradle of my knees.

The sky is blue and clear. He stands before me, the tall grass of a field brushing his knees. I'm walking towards him, slowly but steadily in the strangely static atmosphere. We are back at my home – the barn is to my right, erect again and undamaged. I can't turn my head, but I know the house behind me has four walls once more.

Joe doesn't move or speak as I approach, looking at me intently. He is in his uniform, but unarmed and without his helmet. His chestnut hair falls on his forehead.

"Wake up."

I pass the fence to enter the field but don't feel the usually sharp blades on my bare feet. Everything is fuzzy and muted in this strange place, this preternatural fantasy.

 _"Caroline."_

He is neither smiling nor frowning, but his stare is intense and soft. I'm glad to see him like this, without the look of cold hatred that has been marking his face. One of his hands stretches out as I reach him, his fingers closing around my own and his smell, comforting and familiar, pierces my heart with an unrequited ache.

I can't move my mouth to speak, despite the overpowering desire to tell him how I regret everything that has happened and how I sorry I am that I hurt him. The world here is utterly silent, without even the sounds of the birds and insects that normally inhabit this field. His other hand rises to gently cradle my head, pulling me into his chest.

"It's going to be okay," he says, breaking the soundless ether. His lips touch against the shell of my ear.

I know this just a hallucination, the advent of an illusion from a desperate and deranged mind. Deep down I also know things aren't going to be okay, not at all. But for a second I let myself believe this mirage and this false reassurance, burying my face in the coarse canvas of his jacket and letting his arms surround me in an embrace filled with my both my own heartache and my wish that things had turned out differently.

He speaks again. "It's going to be –"

A crashing sound shakes the clearing, cracking the blissful magic like an earthquake shattering a set of bone china into a thousand pieces. Before I can raise my head an icy, wet wave splashes over us, dissolving the field. Recoiling, I grab onto Joe but he disappears, turning into mist, and my fingers close around empty air. For a moment I'm falling, plummeting through the sudden blackness towards the complete unknown and choking on the sudden water filling my nose.

 _"Caroline!"_

With a sudden lurch straight I cough, blinking in the sudden brightness.

Dr. Mueller stands before me, holding an empty, dripping bucket.

My clothes stick to my skin, hair drips in my eyes, and I realize that I'm soaking wet. It immediately intensifies the uncomfortable coldness of the room and my hands tingle with numbness. Reaching down, Dr. Mueller hauls me to my feet by my collar and tosses me into a chair that has been brought in. "It's time for you and I to have a talk."

I cough again and sputter, but my jaw has healed overnight and when I answer my words are only slightly slurred. "I don't think we have anything left to say."

He sits in another chair across from me. "Oh, I think we do."

Furiously shaking my head, I sit up in the seat. "I'm not going to go along with your plans this time. I'm done with this."

His face twists into an ugly expression. "You think that is for you to decide?"

"There isn't anything else you can do to me. No one else alive you can blackmail me with. All that's left is to kill me, so go ahead." He wouldn't, I knew, and it was enigmatically enjoyable to rub it in his face. His refusal to admit failure.

Pausing, he considers me for a moment. "Why did you do it?"

The same old bullshit. I shove my hair out of my face, looking at him challengingly. An icy shiver shakes through me and cross my arms over my chest to try to keep what body warmth I can make. I don't speak.

"Answer my question."

"No."

Dr. Mueller rocks back in the chair, his chin wrinkling as his mouth turns down. "No?"

"No. I told you, I'm not going to help you. I'm not answering these questions."

There is another short pause of silence before Dr. Mueller opens his mouth again. "Henrich was right. That American gave you quite the courage."

"He didn't give me anything."

"Really? You had your problems, but I must say this is quite the icing on the cake." He angles his head in question, eyes flashing. I glare at him.

"When has this ever not been a fight? It's time to admit that I am never going to be the robot you want me to be. You may have brainwashed me when I was a child, but I know now exactly what you are and what this is. Your treatment, your mind games, the terrible things you made me do – you created this mess yourself, so don't go asking why this has happened."

"Is that what you think?" His face is tight, barely holding on to his cold expression. "I don't remember you complaining when you were dressing yourself in Chanel, touring Europe, and living like a queen on my dime – "

"Are you joking?" I drop my arms, staring at him incredulously. "Are you _joking_? What was I supposed to do? Ask for more beatings? Ask to be sent back here to be tortured even more? Nice clothes and hotels do not mean that somehow _everything else_ you did to me didn't happen!"

"What I did to you, Caroline?" His voice is rising too, filling the bare room. "What exactly was that? I hardly had to do anything – the slightest nudge in the right direction was all you needed."

"I had no choice – "

" _You_ decided that hunger was more important than those ridiculous ideas your parents taught you. _You_ decided to call your father a traitor at his execution. _You_ wrote those propaganda speeches and smiled in the photographs. _You_ pulled the trigger and murdered your mother in this very room."

" _How dare you_!" I leap to my feet, charging over to him. "Are you insane? I was a child you _manipulated!_ "

He looks up at me from his chair. "And, until recently, it worked like a charm, didn't it? You do realize you weren't my first subject, don't you?"

Suddenly my eyes are burning, the memories and pain gouging fresh wounds into my insides. I turn away quickly and don't answer.

"None of the others got nearly as far as you, my dear. One starved. Another hung herself with a bedsheet. You went along swimmingly. Why do you think that is? I didn't change my techniques. I just had to find the right girl who would be primed for what I wanted to do. Why do you think that was you?"

Why? Why was it me? Why wasn't I stronger? "That – my…my choices were cooperate or die. I guess I was more scared of death than you."

He makes a _tsk tsk_ noise. "The others didn't have that problem. If they thought our Fuhrer was wrong they had no hesitation in sacrificing themselves rather than accept our truth. Even the other girls at the camp – ones who were already passionate believers and were there knowing the consequences for failure – failed before you did. Tell me, as the daughter of partisans, how did you explain it to yourself that you beat a bunch of Nazis at their own game to climb out on top? If you were just an innocent victim, how did you accept that you became a Nazi even Hitler himself approved of?"

Dr. Mueller was doing what he did best – twisting and distorting things until I was turned around and not even sure of my own thoughts anymore. I round back towards him, shaking the muddle from my brain. "I'm not going to let you do this again."

"Do what, my dear?"

"Confuse me. Somehow convince me that you are right. I know exactly what trick you are pulling. I'm not proud of what I did. It's been something I've been _trying_ to make amends for."

I realize my mistake when his face alights with sudden understanding. "Ah! So that is where this Jew soldier fits in! Looking for some sort of divine forgiveness, were you?" he chortles, seemingly amused. "I'm afraid you are far past that."

I press my lips together, not allowing Joe to be pulled back into this conversation however right Dr. Mueller may be. "My _point_ is that I would have never been this position in the first place if you hadn't gotten involved."

"I can't argue against that, but," he runs a thoughtful finger over his mustache, "without me you would have been lined up and shot with the rest of them that night."

My lips are dry and cracked when I lick them. "Yes, I know."

His expression darkens at my capitulation. "You've always had a choice," he tells me again scornfully. "I couldn't have stopped you from ending it if you were actually serious."

This time it's my turn to laugh. "Yes, my _choice_. Why didn't realize it? I could have stopped the torture of the camp. I could have declined to join the Party. I could have refused to do the propaganda. I could have prevented Henrich from _raping_ me. All I had to do was blow my brains out. Why didn't just go through with it?"

"I would say that the fact you are still here proves that somewhere, deep down, you wanted this," he presses. "Doesn't it?"

Wanted this? _Wanted_ this? I baulk at his absolute ignorance and resolute conclusion that somehow I could still be convinced to return to the faithful Nazi I used to be. He's insane.

He takes my silence as a victory and relaxes, crossing one leg over the other. "So there is no point in arguing any further, is there? Sit down."

The shivering in my arms and legs increases.

I hate him. I don't move.

"Sit _down_ , Caroline," he orders, a hard line creeping into his voice.

Slowly shaking my head, I stay where I am. "I'm done taking orders from you."

Unfolding himself from the chair, he stands to hang over me threateningly. "Do you want to go down this road again?"

"What are you going to do? Henrich isn't here to be your stupid violent pawn against me. Want to beat me again yourself? Starve me? Go ahead."

He clicks his teeth together. "Do you really want to find out?"

" _Go ahe_ – "

Unexpectedly he's closes the distance between us. He doesn't touch me, but his sudden proximity is imposing all the same. I ready myself for the hit, but he doesn't raise his fist. Standing there for several long seconds, he merely peers down at me, his black eyes unreadable.

"You don't know the half of what I can do, Caroline," he says quietly. "But I will promise you that you are going to be one of us again before the week is out."

"Try me," I challenge in response.

With a dark laugh he turns to head for the door. The sound is chilling and horrible.

"I will, my dear. Trust me, I will."

* * *

 _The tour drags on. I don't speak again. I don't draw attention to myself._

 _Instead I linger behind the others, breathing that smell of rotten decay and looking at the victims of our despicable cause._

 _I know if I do something it will be the final straw. If I am discovered Dr. Mueller's wrath would be uncompromising and unforgiving. In all likelihood the consequences would be deadly and spell the end of my pitiful existence. Even if I was the most popular figure on the planet I wouldn't be spared._

 _But something has to be done and after all that has happened my own sense of preservation is, at best, self-serving and meaningless._

 _We turn another corner and are back at the Administration building._

 _"Dinner is being prepared," the kommandant says, leading us up the steps._

 _Inside is quiet and dark, the air clean and smelling of paper. It is completely opposite from the pestilence outside. I stare up at the swastika banner hung over my head. Henrich and Dr. Mueller both relax, easing back into the world of tea service, small talk, and marmalade sandwiches easily and quickly despite – or maybe because of – the uncivilized ugliness of what we just saw._

 _We enter a dining room and Henrich pulls out my chair with all the manners he always displays when we are around higher ranking officers. Dropping heavily into it, I don't acknowledge anyone else. It doesn't matter; the conversation flows over my head with ease. My outburst is forgotten. I'm back to being just pretty decoration._

 _The door opens again and a second group of officers enters to join the meal. The man who met us at the gate is among them and Henrich goes rigid beside me as he comes in my direction._

 _"Frauline Alsbach," he greets, reaching for my hand. "It is a pleasure seeing you again so soon."_

 _I'm not sure if my return expression is a smile or a grimace. His mouth brushes the back of my hand and I resist the impulse to yank it back._

 _"Do you mind if I can be so bold as to sit next to you? I'm afraid I must admit that I have been waiting your visit with overwhelming excitement."_

 _I can feel Henrich gathering to object on the other side of me when Dr. Mueller answers. "Of course, Obersturmführer Rheinenmurh. I'm sure Frauline Alsbach is overjoyed to meet such an ardent fan."_

 _Henrich shuts his mouth with an audible click and turns to glare at his plate. I shift in my chair as Rheinenmurh settles on my left side. Sandwiched between them, I can already feel the jealousy and competition filling the air. This has all of the markings to be a dreadful meal._

 _And it is. Rheinenmurh – or Karl, as he insisted I call him – peppers me with flirtatious small talk through the soup course and the mains. I make the motions of listening, throwing in a "ah" or "that's nice" to keep up appearances. He tells me of his childhood in Munich, the first time he saw a picture of me in an issue of Der Pimpf magazine, and how he joined the SS at seventeen. I have no interest in who he is. He's a guard at a concentration camp. It's difficult to even give him the token acknowledgement of the occasional nod._

 _Henrich, on the other hand, forgoes the conversation happening around the table to listen intently to us, edging closer and closer until he is nearly pressed against my side. When Karl leans in to tell me about how he gained an Obersturmführer rank so young Henrich responds by looping his arm around the back of my chair. I'm so stiff and tense that the muscles of my back are burning. It's stifling being crushed from both flanks by their raging egos. Grabbing the butter, I start tearing apart a roll._

 _"Ah, Herr Lehmann, it is an honor to meet you as well," I hear Karl say as he bends around me. "I hear you may be joining our ranks soon. It is about time, eh? I imagine you can't wait."_

 _It is a slight, right out of the gate. Karl, with his neat black uniform, putting Henrich, in his Party khaki, in his place._

 _Henrich nearly hums with anger._

 _"Yes," he answers coolly. "As soon as Caroline and I are married I plan on taking my commission. I hope to be placed on the front. Perhaps you can tell me, Obersturmführer, what it is like in battle? I am morbidly curious about what I am getting into."_

 _Henrich isn't going to request a battlefield post. I know that and he does too. He is too much of a coward and even_ he _realizes he doesn't have the temperament. But the insult is pointed. Being in the SS is commendable, but fighting our enemies as true soldiers is more so, especially compared to the comfortable life the SS regiment has here. Henrich may not care that he won't rise to that level, but as Karl's eyes harden I realize that he does and that he underestimated Henrich._

 _"The Jewish problem has taken up the majority of my efforts, I'm afraid," Karl finally replies tartly. "But I am sure we will eventually be rotated up to the front and I look forward to doing my part. After all, there is no difference between killing Jews and killing Russians or Englishmen, is there?"_

 _The bread goes dry and choking in my mouth. I cough hard. A warm hand rubs my back, painfully smarting the bruise there, and when Henrich makes a noise low in his throat I see that it is Karl touching me._

 _Highly improper in any circumstance. Scandalous in this one._

 _"Are you quite alright, Caroline?" he asks me. Another cough seizes my throat at the addition of blunt informality and I cover my mouth with my napkin rather than answer. Calling me, a high-ranking female Party member whom he just met, by my first name is nervy and a clear challenge._

 _In my peripheral Henrich clenches his knife and fork tightly, not moving. Dr. Mueller breaks away from his conversation across from us to look over._

 _The rage radiating off Henrich is red hot, burning into me with the force of a tangible fire. "You will please refer to my fiancé as a proper Fraulein, Obersturmführer. It would not do you well to insult her in such as way otherwise," he growls lowly, carefully laying the flatware back on the table and drawing his hands, knuckles white from the tightness of his grip, towards his lap._

 _The heat of the hand withdraws from my back but I don't look at either of them. The inexplicable feeling of slowly being suffocated squeezes at my chest. I snatch my water glass, taking a deep gulp._

 _"I meant no offense," Karl answers, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. "I confess my concern for her wellbeing temporarily trumped my manners. But perhaps I was amiss since you did not seem to be alarmed. She must have spells often for you, as her intended, to not offer assistance immediately."_

 _I nearly choke on my water too. Good Lord, I need to get away from these two before I get caught in the midst of a ridiculous fistfight. Tellingly, both of them seem to have forgotten about my existence as they talk above me. I lean forward further, clearing their line of fire._

 _"It was a mere cough," Henrich snorts dismissively. "Had there been a true emergency of course I would see to her welfare at once. As I am sure she can confirm, rather than risk embarrassing her by jumping at the slightest sniffle she would prefer attention when she truly needs it." He takes a drink of his own water. "Perhaps when you find a woman of your own someday you will realize that they do not prefer to be treated as fragile glass. A true German woman is tough as nails. Every woman has her own battlefield, as our Fuhrer says."_

 _Karl leans back in his seat, his eyes sharp even as he bows his head in momentary surrender. "Of course, Herr Lehmann. I have heard you are a quick study of our Fuhrer's writings and I must compliment you on living up to your reputation. Our cause is fortunate to have such a formidable fighter on our side." He turns to me. "Forgive any fuss on my part, Frauline, or any transgression I unwittingly committed."_

 _I nod quickly, taking another drink, and the three of us fall silent, Henrich smugly smiling in victory. But the peace is short-lived – the Obersturmführer isn't finished. Henrich had woefully underestimated him as well._

 _His smooth voice reaches me once more. "The magazines were filled with gossip when your engagement was announced but had little actual information on the details. Now that we three know one another I would love to send my formal congratulations for the wedding, but when is it? No one seems to know a day, even after all these months you have been engaged."_

 _I freeze, the glass still to my lips._

 _Henrich drops his fork again and sucks in an outraged breath. "I'm afraid your card won't reach us in time. The ceremony is taking place as soon as we are back in Berlin," he murmurs warningly._

 _Karl feigns a disappointed frown. "That is such a shame. I had no idea it was so soon. You must be unable to contain your excitement, Frauline Alsbach. May I see the assuredly glamorous ring Herr Lehmann has bestowed upon you? Although I doubt it could equal you in beauty it must be a sight to behold yet. You deserve nothing less."_

 _He has a pleasant little smile on his face, one reserved for polite conversation at garden parties like this one would be if it weren't in the middle of a man-made hell. He also knows I'm not wearing a ring. I'm sure that was the first thing his eagle-eyed gaze noted._

 _I clank my glass back on the table._

 _"We are getting the ring sized," Henrich nearly bites at him._

 _"This close to the ceremony? My, that is quite the risk – "_

 _I rise quickly, breaking off this degenerating tête-à-tête by forcing them to stand as well. The other men at the table follow suit, staring at me expectantly for disturbing the cheese course._

 _Fumbling for my pocketbook I mutter, "I must see to the powder room," quickly at them before spinning around to exit through the swinging door behind me. I hear them settle back in their chairs while the chatter resumes and shove my way through the door._

 _A loud crash of dishes sounds as the door collides with someone on the other side._

 _As if this couldn't get any worse._

 _The conversation goes quiet again at the table and I swallow nervously. The door swings back shut and I don't hear anything else._

 _Oh, no._

 _"My goodness," I say jovially over my shoulder at the table, faking a smile. "This door is more dangerous than it appears. I hope I didn't knock anyone out." The mood relaxes with my high-pitched giggle and as they turn away again I pull the door inward to slide through to the other side._

 _Taking a relieved breath to be out of there, I look at the mess on the floor in front of me. The coffee service. It is silver so it didn't shatter like porcelain would, but coffee is in a quickly growing puddle the wood floor._

 _A young woman is on her hands and knees, trying to mop it up. She is wearing a maid's outfit, but her skin and bones frame tells me everything I need to know before I see the yellow star on her blouse._

 _"I'm so sorry," I tell her, crouching down to help._

 _"It is my fault, miss. I will have a fresh service out in just a moment" she says quietly, keeping her head down._

 _I frown. "Nonsense. I'm the one who barreled through the door." I begin to collect the cups and saucers that have scattered and put them back on the tray she had dropped._

 _Her throat bobs as she sees this and her hands shakily clench around the towel. "Please do not trouble yourself. I will get this cleaned up. I am sorry for the inconvenience."_

 _"Please, it is not an inconvenience," I reach for the tipped pot that held the coffee. "The longer I stay out here the less time I have to spend in there –"_

 _Her fingers reach the handle the same time mine do and she jumps at the contact, her head jerking up to face me._

 _Large brown eyes. Grown weary with the ensuing years, but those same brown eyes._

 _We drop the pot simultaneously, gaping at each other._

 _She… she was supposed to be… dead._

 _Dead._

 _"Anne?"_

* * *

 **Thank you for your patience! And also the wonderful and supportive reviews regarding my AN, particularly the guests and maya since I can't respond to you individually. You guys are the greatest :)**

 **mngirl - Thanks for the review on Ch. 34! I glad it was believable, lol, because it was crazy to write!**


	38. Chapter 36

**Chapter 34 is finally updated, FYI.** **Sorry about that. I've lurked on FF for eleven (!) years but I am still learning the actual author functions on the site :)**

* * *

After a battle was over, when the roars and screams stop and the casualties are bundled away, Easy always went through a strange lull of introspection. After the shock of who was killed and who was maimed wore off there was always a moment where everyone went silent, reflecting on their own luck and working the odds as to whether it would last. As the adrenaline and panic drained away the natural instinct was to evaluate everything done – whether in the fight itself or, hell, all the way back to birth – to make some calculation of whether survival was deserved. As if a pious past or brave present granted some holy protection from the indiscriminate bullets that were going to without fail come flying again eventually. Until Caroline, Joe thought he knew the answer to that equation and usually took those quiet seconds to wonder when his number was finally going to be called.

For that sort of moment to happen in a place other than the battlefield, though, was rare. So when he found himself waiting outside Winters' office, of all places, he was completely unprepared as it struck. He was alone, the others having gone their separate ways after Henrich was tossed to the medics and word was passed that a Nazi collaborator was in Caroline's cellar. He was listening to the low murmur of voices traveling through the wall behind him as Winters and Nixon discussed the mission he wanted so urgently to happen. As he sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair his mind took a sudden unforeseen turn to reflect on what had happened. What he had turned into over the course of these months. He stared at the blood drying under his fingernails and thought of what he was prepared to do to get to Caroline and what he had done already. What kind of man he was.

He always had his demons, churning and squirming underneath the cold hard lid he developed over the years to function like a normal human being. A cap to free him from descending into raging madness and allow him to take risks he wouldn't otherwise – risks like making friends for the first time in his life at Toccoa.

But the war that followed eventually left him embittered and heartless, ripping from him his brothers in arms with gory proficiency that thinned his control to where he was ready to let the darkness take over. To give in and lose the last fraying threads of his decency. As the small fire of hope in him dimmed and died in the brutal slog from France to Holland to Belgium and into Germany the shadows grew closer and closer until those demons were whispering in his thoughts with every bullet he fired.

He wouldn't trade his time with guys like Skip, Hoobler, Buck, or Toye for anything, but as they fell one by one he was forced to reckon with his breaking grip on his ability to stay moored to the idea that he wasn't a monster. The times he slipped – at the Crossroads, in Landsberg, at Eichelsdorfer's cabin – he didn't feel remorse afterwards. On the contrary he felt the blistering desire to inflict more death and – in the days since Kaufering – _satisfaction_ with every body he left in his wake.

And now not only could he not make himself feel even a drop of pity for the shattered man he left with the medics, he still had the urge to go back and finish what he started.

He took that to mean more than anything that the demons might as well have won. That the lid evaporated under the punishing allotment the world was inflicting on him. On all of them. He remembered Malarkey's face in Haguenau – the blank, tired, defeated look of a man who had nothing left but his own mortality. He remembered the day Nixon learned of his impending divorce and how he raged as though the loss of a dog thousands of miles away was the final straw in the limit of how much a man could take.

For Joe, the compounding web of events concentrated over the last seven days was what removed any remaining doubt of _if_ he had fallen to his own heinous depravity. He couldn't lie to himself about how good it felt breaking Henrich. The revenge was necessary and deserved, but the joy he took in it was a product of the black forces within him that now had free reign over both his scruples and his conscience.

This bout of perspective wasn't entirely new. Lord knows he spent enough time recently lamenting how he ended up in the desperate chase to get her back. And in all the days before now, when he realized that he had survived yet another implausibly fatal situation, he had thought over the reasons why and the increasing probability that his time on Earth was lasting just long enough for his sins to become completely irredeemable.

Now that he finally acquiesced to the fact what little good he had in him had splintered with Henrich's screams, the only question left to be answered was if he could in fact someday crawl out into the light again.

It was a question that hinged on Caroline.

A woman with her own darkness, he now knew, that may be even deeper than his. A woman trying to find her way, just as he was, out of the terror of the past. A woman he loved. And he knew that if she slipped away, if she was lost to him forever, the last hope there was for him would wither and die along with her.

All because of that moment in the woods when he tore everything apart.

 _I'm sorry, Joe._

Fucking guilt. Something to be dismissed and laughed at just a few days ago. Now it was the only thing besides the blackness.

Damnation and regret were poor company indeed.

* * *

"I want you to listen to me very carefully, Joe."

It was the moment of truth. Anguishing thoughts carefully sealed away, he kept his face aloof and blank as he surveyed his commanding officers. "Yes, sir."

Winters' eyes were steady as he propped himself on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms. Nixon and Speirs flanked him, also watching Joe.

It felt like a fucking inquisition.

"I've heard what you have been doing lately. Quite the one-man mission you've been executing."

 _Shit_. "Sir, I – "

Winters held up a silencing hand. "Don't say a word. Understand that I do not care about Nazis – especially ones who hide instead of surrendering – but that does not mean I want to hear anything incriminating. The important matter you need to remember moving forward is that nothing comes across my desk to cause me misery. The moment I have to deal with one more piece of paper due to your actions is the moment this vendetta comes to an end. Am I clear?"

Barely allowing himself to breathe a sigh of relief, Joe nodded. "Yes, sir."

"With that in mind Captain Nixon has presented a strong case to authorize a mission to go get this German woman. Before I sign off on it, however, I need a reassurance from you that this will be as smooth and clean as Captain Nixon promises it to be. The objective here is not to attack, destroy, or kill. It is only to retrieve the target and withdraw, ideally without our presence ever being detected. To do so you will need to conduct yourself like the exemplary soldier you have demonstrated yourself to be since Normandy. You will follow orders and you will not act outside of the mission's parameters. There will be no deviations, no hesitations, no headaches for anyone regardless of what you find when you get to this camp."

Joe recalled Holland in Winters' unamused expression.

" _Goddammit, what?!"_

He got almost all of his ammunition taken away for that one. The walk to HQ with those prisoners was _long_.

"Yes, sir."

"If you give me any reason to doubt you I will take you off of the assignment even if you are already in the air. The only reason I am allowing you to be a part of it in the first place is because we hope the target will be more amenable to leaving with you rather than a force she doesn't recognize and will assume is the enemy. The timetable is critical here and we don't want her resisting if she is able-bodied enough to do so. But do not think that won't delay in replacing you with another German-speaking soldier if the situation calls for it."

Joe squeezed his fingers together behind his back, out of sight of the officers, to release some of the boiling tension that filled him as he listened to what Winters was telling him. _The mission was approved._ He was actually going to fucking go get her. He wasn't too concerned about the conditions being placed on him – he already figured on the slim chance they let him go that he was going to be a fucking saint. Caroline may be someone he would go to the ends of the earth for, but if he did something stupid that got her killed he would see to it that he finally got his meeting with the Devil in the afterlife.

 _If she wasn't already dead_. The thought skimmed across his mind before he quickly ended it. Despite Henrich's warning he didn't think about that possibility. He would rescue her. She would be alive.

She had to be.

That's all there was to it.

"Understood, sir," he answered to Winters.

The Major nodded and stood. "Good. Work with Captain Nixon to map the location you received. You need to be in the air by 2200, which gives you less than five hours to prepare."

Joe took his cue and saluted before turning to follow Nixon and Speirs out. It was going to be a drop, thankfully. Much faster and much more efficient than hoofing it clandestinely through enemy territory, however few German soldiers were left in the sparsely populated area between here and the camp.

The sun was fading as they made their way to Nixon's office a floor below Winters'. Battalion had taken over some civic building at Landsberg, stripping any sign of the Reich from its interiors and replacing it with a swath of army green – spare tents, ammo boxes, drums, helmets, and ration tins were crammed into every empty space. Darting around the towering mess, they entered Nixon's office to find Lipton waiting for them.

"Okay," Nixon began, pulling out a folder. "These are the latest surveillance photographs of the grid Lehmann identified. He said it was a camp just south of the lake, correct Joe?"

Joe nodded and Nixon pulled one picture to put on top of the pile. "This is it then. A Hitler Youth camp that was closed without explanation in 1938. Our review of the recovered files from yesterday has revealed that it was assigned to Dr. Albert Mueller to conduct his psychological experiments of behalf of Joseph Goebbels. Per the intelligence Joe received, Mueller is there now with the target, Caroline Alsbach."

With this Nixon shuffled through the folder again, this time pulling out the photograph of Caroline that had been pinned to her file. As his eyes fell on it the reaction in his gut was immediately visceral and wrenching. There was a hardness there, behind those blue eyes, which he didn't recognize. It was so different than the person he met that night on the road that it felt like he was looking at someone else in the photo. What sort of person had she been? What had happened to drag her so far down to their level?

"A Nazi, sir?" Lipton glanced at Joe before raising an eyebrow at Nixon as if to ask what the fuck they were doing risking their lives to rescue a kraut.

"Formerly, sir," he gruffly clarified.

"Alsbach was acquainted with the inner circle of the leadership," Nixon told the lieutenant, "but was a Jewish sympathizer and, apparently," he motioned to Joe, "an American one too. She has been arrested for the assistance she gave Liebgott in addition to her history of other partisan activities. Our objective is to retrieve her before they kill her and debrief her thoroughly for intelligence purposes. We hope she will assist us in capturing high ranking members as we get closer to Berlin and aid with their prosecution."

He didn't elaborate further into her past and Joe didn't fill in the blanks. Being mightily outranked by everyone present he decided to not test Winters' promise and kept his mouth shut. Lipton nodded in understanding and returned his attention to the map.

"The nucleus of the camp consists of the five main buildings aligned around this main flag pole." Using a pen, he pointed out the area he was referring to. "We know this is a dormitory and this is a dining hall," he extrapolated, circling the two larger structures. "We think this," he motioned to a smaller building, "contains classrooms. We aren't sure what the other two building are and it is unknown if there are further outer structures hidden by the tree cover.

"So what you are saying is that she could be anywhere," Speirs muttered, looking displeased.

"Per Liebgott's interrogation we believe a significant number of civilians are gathered here to seek transport deeper in German territory. Being a prisoner Alsbach would be isolated from them. Presumably, then, she would not be in the three larger of the five buildings since they would be in use as shelters.

Speirs looked at the map, in thought. "What sort of military presence do we think is there?"

Nixon shot a look to Joe. "According the Lehmann less than a squad," he answered cautiously.

Speirs head jerked up in disbelief and he pegged Joe with a stare. "And you believe this to be accurate?"

He thought of Henrich laying in the grass, screaming.

"Yes, sir," he answered levelly. "He advised that all available manpower was shifted to the front. She is the only prisoner there, so just Dr. Mueller and one or two members of his personal detail should be present to handle her."

 _Handle_. He wished he'd used a different word.

"Given this," Nixon continued, "we hope to have an easy in-and-out operation. The plan – as it stands – is to drop here," he indicated a thinner section of the woods about two kilometers from the site, "and proceed on foot to the target area. We check the two main buildings first then proceed outwards until she is located. The three large buildings should be avoided unless evidence indicates that she may be present. The civilians might be unarmed, but we will be heavily outnumbered."

"If only a handful of soldiers are there then one or two platoons should be sufficient for the operation, correct?" Speirs inquired.

"Yes, the fewer soldiers present the less likely we will be seen. Take off is scheduled for 2130, putting us at the drop zone at 2200 and the target site at 2245. If we maintain noise discipline and stay out of plain sight hopefully we will retrieve her and retreat without causing notice. You will need to assign one squad for the recovery operation and the other for covering fire. I'll leave it up to you on the particulars of the arrangement."

Speirs lit a cigarette, still concentrating on the map. "We will set up the line of covering fire at the woodline on the west side of the encampment since that provides the least obstructed view. Half of the infiltrating squad will maintain a perimeter around the buildings as they are searched. Orders will be to fix bayonets and use firearms as a last resort. Any resistance encountered will hopefully be neutralized silently and quickly. If we are engaged in a firefight then the infiltrating squad will retreat to the fire line immediately. This action will alert the civilians, which we will not have the resources to adequately confront. Therefore, at the first sign that noise discipline has been broken we will withdraw at once." He looked back at Joe then. "Understood?"

It would mean leaving Caroline behind. It would mean failing her once again. He couldn't meet Speirs' gaze. "Yes, sir," he replied softly.

The Captain gazed at him for a second longer before turning back to Nixon. "What are the return preparations?"

"That is the more difficult logistical situation," Nixon sighed. "There are no suitable areas to serve as landing strips for return aircraft. The journey back to American territory will need to be made on foot. Winters has assigned Able, Baker and Fox to this portion of the line. Resistance has been steadily weakening in this sector since Landsberg and Mindelheim fell, putting us in a position to start the next offensive push. Doing so simultaneously with this operation will not only serve as a distraction for any unreported German forces are in the area around the camp, but will hopefully also cut the distance you will need to travel to get back. Orders will be, however, to halt at a position from Tussenhausen to Ettringen until the rest of the line catches up to avoid creating the risk of encirclement. Ultimately, then, you will still need to trek overland approximately five kilometers."

"Do we know anything about the condition of the target? Will she be able to travel?" Lipton asked.

Everyone turned to Joe expectantly again. He kept his eyes on the map, face tightening.

"She was mobile when I saw her at Landsberg, but had sustained some injuries that were bleeding pretty good. Per Lehmann, though, this Dr. Mueller may be conducting an interrogation that will possibly leave her incapacitated by the time we get there," he murmured.

"I'll instruct Roe to bring a field stretcher, sir," Lipton advised Speirs.

"Very well. Due to Liebgott's involvement 2nd platoon will lead the extraction. Take elements for 1st as well to round out the necessary coverage. Have the men at briefing at 2000. Lew, can you get me an enlarged copy of the map?"

"Will do."

"Alright then. I'll see everyone in an hour."

* * *

The form of the plane was blurred in the early mists of the night as it taxied over to where they waited on the grass, its engines loud and whining. Joe watched it, adjusting the straps of his jump harness out of habit. Even after all these fucking times the damn thing still made him feel like he was wearing a straight jacket. A band of the newer replacements nervously fiddled with theirs, trying to remember how they worked from their training back in the States. It occurred to him that although he had three combat jumps under his belt the new recruits hadn't been in the air since paratrooper school.

Fucking great. Hopefully they wouldn't fall out of the plane ass over end. Grant and Malarkey talked to them softly, giving them a quick refresher as they tightened the buckles.

"Yah need some Joe?" Popeye appeared next to him, holding out a can of grease pant and chewing on a toothpick. With a quick thanks he took a big dip and began streaking it over his face.

"Quite a night for a jump, ain't it?" Popeye's lilt was quiet in the usual hush that always fell before a mission.

"Sure is," he replied briefly. He liked the easy-going Virginian, but was not in a talkative mood even more so than usual. The weight of the parachute on his back and the feel of his rifle in his hands had him jittery and he tapped his fingers against his rifle stock as he watching the plane coming towards them. He was so close now. Close to bringing her back. Close to saving himself just as much as her. Closer to feeling something other than his own crumbled conscience.

Popeye took note and stood quietly next to him, watching the plane as well. The red lightbulb inside the open doorway threw fiery shadows over the gathered group of men.

"Hell of a thing, right?" he said as the plane came to a stop, so low Joe barely heard over the noise. Popeye took out the toothpick and tossed it into the grass.

"What is?" Joe asked, looking over to him.

"War." Popeye met his gaze, his expression hidden under the camouflaging paint. "It'll have yah killing anything that moves one day and throw a woman in yah lap the next. A one-time Nazi one at that. I'll tell you what, none of us thought she'd be the one." He gave a lighthearted chuckle. "Nah, we'd given up tryin' to get you to look at any broad twice. Turns out we was just looking at the wrong side of the line."

Joe snorted in amusement despite the anxiety swallowing his stomach. "Well, I hope somebody made some money off that bet."

"I think they did."

There was the sound of footsteps and the form of Malarkey appeared out of the dimness. "You two ready?"

"Sure am, Sarge," Popeye replied, grinning. "I'll see yah on the ground Joe."

He set off the join the line forming where the flight officer was lowering a set of stairs and Joe went to follow. Malarkey fell into step beside him. "You good to go too?"

From the softer tone of his voice Joe knew he wasn't asking after the status of Joe's equipment. "Yeah, Malark, I'm fine."

"Glad to hear." He patted the rifle case uncomfortably slung across his abdomen. "Listen, I know this mission was briefed as a rescue of an intelligence operative, but the guys know it is more than that."

"Yeah," Joe responded. "I heard money changed hands over some bet they had going on about my luck with women."

"Oh shit, that's right." Now it was Malarkey's turn to give a laugh. "I'd forgotten all about that. Skip started it way back in England."

Ah, Skip. He should have figured. He'd wager that bastard was giggling like a schoolgirl up in heaven.

"Well hopefully we'll get a proper introduction to her next time you bring her around. You know, somewhere without fucking Germans shooting at us and assholes trying to drag her off for being a Nazi."

"I plan on it."

Marlarkey playfully smacked him on the back of his helmet. "First things first, though, is to get through this mission alive. Remember that we've got your back, Joe. We'll get her out of there and when all this is over she'll get the proper vetting from all of us. We've got to see if she's good enough for our Liebgott, right?"

He knew what his sergeant was trying to tell him, if in more friendly terms than Winters. _Don't get your ass shot off for being stupid out there._ After how the story of him losing it with Henrich surely made the rounds he didn't fault Malarkey for trying to look after him.

"I'll count on it," he answered reassuringly.

Malark flashed him another grin before going up to the door to help squeeze the overloaded soldiers through the tiny opening. As Joe fell into place at the back of the line he took a deep breath, looking up to the stars hidden by the persistent mist.

He was only a few hours away from rescuing her. The map of the camp flashed through his memory. She was there, in one of those buildings, suffering God knows how. She had no idea he – or any of them – were coming for her. If his performance during the battle at her village was anything it was confirmation to her that he hated her and that she had no one. That she was only alone once more.

A now-familiar ache flashed through him and he squeezed his eyes shut for a passing second.

He knew he should prepare for the worst. If they only found her lifeless body, cold and forgotten, he needed to still be able to function. He had to keep his shit together.

If the worst did happen he wasn't going to leave her. He would carry her all the way fucking back if he had to. He wouldn't abandon her again, even in death. That's one of the two times on this mission he decided he wouldn't fucking give a damn about orders.

The other was Dr. Mueller. Nixon wanted him taken alive, if possible. No fucking way. Henrich was one thing. But Dr. Mueller was the man who put everything into motion and there wasn't the time to beat the shit out of him too. So he had one bullet on him specially assigned in the event they stumbled across him.

Part of Joe hoped the man would be _with_ Caroline when they did. He liked the idea of that asshole's last sight being Caroline escaping from his grasp and a Jew pointing a pistol between his eyes.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the flight officer reaching a hand down to him and he realized everyone else had made it on to the plane. Grasping it he pulled himself up and into the cabin, squeezing into the last seat across from to door and next to Heffron. Malarkey entered behind him and motioned that all the men were accounted for before taking the first position seat. Pulling up the stairs, the flight officer disappeared into the cockpit to alert the pilots and seconds later they were bouncing across the unpaved field, quickly gaining speed towards the forest ahead of them. Right before they smacked into the treeline there was a rough jerk upward and with a shudder the C-47 went airborne, skimming over the tops of the trees and heading for the clouds.

Leaning over, he looked out the door as they climbed to cruising altitude. Below them, through the thin shroud of fog, a scattering of bright blasts suddenly lit up the landscape all at once. Artillery. He checked his watch in the glow of the red bulb. The offensive Nixon promised was kicking off right on time. The American shells flashed with increasing frequency against the featureless backdrop, the low thunder of the percussion even reaching him to add to the droning rumble of the plane. There was no German response that he could see from this vantage. Just empty blackness.

* * *

The camp wasn't very far from the airfield and they had only been up for about ten minutes before the flight officer came back out to alert Malarkey they were approaching the drop zone. Joe had been nearly bouncing in his seat the whole time, much to Heffron's annoyed chagrin, and when Malarkey gave the order for everyone to stand he shot to his feet.

"Hook up!" the sergeant shouted over the engine noise. With practiced fluidity he snapped his carabiner to the line extending over his head. As the equipment checks started in the back he looked out the door again. The world below was still blank and dark in the weak light of the waning moon. This was his first night drop since D-Day but everything couldn't be more different – there was no anti-aircraft fire now, no people trying to shoot him out of the sky. And he knew exactly what was waiting for him down there.

As well as _exactly_ what he planned to do when he encountered it.

There was a rough yank has Heffron checked his harness before slapping his arm. "Two okay!" he shouted, doing the same to Malarkey.

"One okay!" Malarkey answered and turned to watch the flight officer and that damn lightbulb.

After an agonizingly long minute it flickered green.

"Go!" the flight officer yelled.

Malarkey took off ahead of him and he followed right on the redhead's heels. As he leapt from the doorway there was the most disorienting sensation that happened every time – he was doing nothing but freefalling, plummeting towards the earth at gravity's whim. It scared the shit out of him the first time it happened during training. Now, as the wind tore at his uniform and the screaming roar took the place of the plane's rattle in his ears, he lifted his arms out.

For the briefest second, he flew.

Then his parachute unraveled behind him and with a sharp kick to his gut by his harness it yanked him upwards, forcefully arresting his descent. The roaring died away in his ears, replaced by unwavering silence as he drifted gently downwards to the forest below. Around him he could pick out the black outlines of the other men as they came down as well, dropping to the ground as soundless apparitions. The tops of the trees broke through the haze ahead for him too and he steered around the taller ones, finally choosing a landing spot that as far as he could tell was clear. As he got closer the musty smell of moss and wet earth rose up to greet him and he pulled on his lines to slow himself down.

He had made a lucky guess – his heels hit the clear dirt right between two thorny rows of bushes and he rolled with his landing unimpeded. His chute, though, was another story. It settled directly on top of the prickly branches, forcing him to waste precious seconds ripping it off. Finally getting it free, he balled the silk up and stuffed it back into his pack. As he was locking the clasp a loud racket off to his right echoed through the night. In the weak light he could tell it was McClung crashing to a stop, tangled in a tree and hanging off the ground. He slipped his rifle from its case and made his way over.

"Flash," he whispered.

"Thunder," McClung answered back softly before cursing and yanking on his harness.

Approaching him, Joe looked up at the branches. His lines were in a hopeless mess.

"Son of a fucking bitch –" McClung was grumbling, throwing off his musette bag.

"I'm going to have to cut you down," Joe told him, pulling off his own pack once more.

"Shit. I didn't see this damn tree until the last second. Goddammit –"

Getting a grip on one of the lower branches, Joe hoisted himself towards the stuck paratrooper. "It's happened to everyone at some point. At least no one is fucking shooting on this drop."

McClung begrudgingly grunted in response, still looking pissed. The ropes were wrapped around a branch above his head, out of his reach. Joe maneuvered over to the spot and pulled out his knife to begin sawing.

"Fucking piece of shit chute," McClung continued to mutter to himself.

"Shut the fuck up before you broadcast to the entire fucking continent you are stuck up here," Joe pointed out. "Keep watch instead, why don't you?"

As to prove Joe right, there was another crack of a twig breaking in the darkness that had them both instantly freezing. Joe looked at his rifle on the ground, out of reach. McClung raised his, but he was a fucking sitting duck.

"Flash," a soft voice called out. Joe recognized it immediately. Malarkey.

"Thunder," McClung responded and Joe quickly went back to work. There were quiet footsteps approaching them.

"How'd the fuck you get that tangled up, Earl?"

"I don't fucking know. Sorry, Sarge."

"You got it taken care of, Joe? We can't afford to waste time."

"Yeah, I just –" he made it through all but the last bunch of lines. "The next one is going to drop you, McClung."

"Got it." He pressed himself against the trunk.

With a sharp snap the last line severed and McClung dropped several feet, his grip on the bark stopping him from tumbling to the ground. Finding his footing, he hastily negotiated his way down to the ground. Shoving his knife back into his boot, Joe scrambled down as well and threw his gear back on.

"I owe you Lieb," McClung whispered at him as he tugged his musette bag back on.

"Don't worry about it," he replied. These guys were helping him save Caroline. They didn't owe him a damn thing.

"Let's go," Malarkey whispered to both of them and they followed him as he turned in the direction of the rendezvous point, disappearing back into the brush.

It took them about fifteen minutes to make it to the coordinates where they were to regroup. Joe did a quick count of helmets as they entered the clearing and realized they were the last ones to join. Grant looked visibly relieved as he approached them and reached out to shake Malarkey's hand. "Glad to see you. Run into trouble?"

"Nothing serious," Malarkey replied. "Ready to move out?"

"Yup, just waiting on you guys."

Following the plan, they divided into the two operation groups and started northwest in a tactical column.

Joe volunteered for point. As they maneuvered through the woods the distant rumblings of the offensive still sounded from the south and he checked his watch again. 2230. They were running behind.

He picked up the pace.

The forest seemed… empty. They didn't run across anyone – which was something Joe didn't mind – but there was also… nothing. No hoots of owls, no rustling of night creatures, no sounds of any of the wildlife that should be about after dark. Joe tried to not let it bug him as they moved forward. It was fucking foreboding, to be honest. Like a warning. The emptiness of the woods reflected the emptiness he felt within him, emptiness that would become permanent if he didn't find what he was hoping for at the end of all this. What if the camp was a desolate as the land surrounding it? What if there was nothing but death?

A thick thicket of brush was ahead and he waded into it.

What if this was his end as well as hers?

The branches clawed at his skin and there were some quiet curses coming from behind him.

 _Stop. Just stop it, Joe._

Making his way out the other side, he moved to start forward again when a glow cut through the trees, stopping him in his tracks.

A light.

He dropped down to his knees, holding up a fist. A rapid set of footfalls came up behind him.

"This must be it," Malarkey breathed in his ear, watching the light as well. "Be careful, Joe."

 _Caroline._

The beacon shined at him, beckoning him to take off in a run.

Swallowing, he nodded brusquely and rose to his feet again, adrenaline flooding his body and making his knees shake. Taking deliberate, measured steps, he forced his pace to remain steady as he moved towards the sight. Malarkey made his way down the line, ordering absolute light and noise discipline, and the rustling sounds Joe had heard the entire journey immediately died as the men straightened up.

It took forever to get to the tree line. At least it seemed that way.

The light slowly grew closer. It wasn't moving and there weren't any noises to accompany it to alert them of who might be waiting for them. Joe's jaw ached with the strain his control was wresting out of him. He couldn't mess this up. He couldn't burst out shooting. He had to follow the plan.

The outline of a building was visible now off to his left. The dining hall, he remembered. He could vaguely see the dorms behind it. An empty flagpole was directly in front of him and the unknown buildings were to his right. The light was coming from a post next to the flagpole. There was no one in sight.

"First platoon," Grant said lowly. "Spread out and create a line of fire. I want a machine gun covering the flagpole."

"Second platoon is on me," Malarkey ordered, moving in front of Joe and crouching down into the shadows as the light spilled over them. Joe followed suit and Sisk, Ramirez, Heffron, McClung, and Webster lined up behind him. Joe kept his eyes on Webster for a moment. This was the recovery team and Speirs considered it a good idea to have a second German speaker along in case Joe couldn't handle it. Joe didn't appreciate that sentiment and he also didn't appreciate Webster having such an important role despite being unreliable when push came to shove.

Webster met his gaze as he joined them and nodded to Joe, possibly in understanding.

Fucking fine. Joe had no say in it anyway.

The rest of the platoon – a cobbled together group consisting of Perco, Garcia, Popeye, and a couple of replacements Joe didn't know – assembled behind Web as the covering squad.

Inching forward until just a bare amount of greenery covered them, Malarkey motioned to him and he nodded. They were to run out to the first unknown building and assess the situation before everyone else followed.

He rocked forward, his legs cramping. _One...Two...Thr-_

 _POP_

The sound of a gunshot bounced through the compound and he and Malarkey faltered.

 _What the fuck –_

 _POP POP_

It sounded _twice_ again, but he couldn't tell which fucking building it was coming from. He rose up, whipping his head around but there was nothing. Who the fuck was shooting?

 _Who_ the _fuck_ were they shooting at?

Jesus Christ. _Caroline_. He needed to get to her. He had to -

Malarkey grabbed his elbow and roughly yanked him back down. He shook off the grip. Where the hell would she be? He had to go get her. He had to save her. There was no way he could be _this_ close and they blow her brains out.

Blonde hair covered in fresh, warm blood. Blank, flat blue eyes. _Executed_.

Fucking Christ.

"Joe," Malarkey was saying. " _Joe._ We are sticking to the plan. Just stay calm, alright?"

 _Stay calm?_ She could be dying right now and he was sitting fifty fucking feet away -

There was a loud bang and he flinched. _Another_ one?

How many fucking bullets did she fucking need in her… oh God…

"That was a door, Joe," Malarkey was hissing at him. He met his sergeant's concerned scrutiny and Winters' warning ran again through his mind.

 _Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together._

 _But Caroline -_

 _They will send you to the fucking rear if you don't get ahold of yourself._

 _Then Web…_

He forced air into his lungs, feeling lightheaded. His pulse throbbed against the scar in his neck.

No way was fucking Webster finding her.

"Yes, Sarge." He forced his tongue to form the words. He forced his body to stay still. He forced his brain to shut up.

Malarkey nodded after a moment and he released Joe's arm for a second time. Joe didn't move and the sergeant slowly turned back to watch the camp.

Just as Joe focused on the camp as well the sounds of footsteps against the gravel reached them. Running footsteps.

Joe thought he was going to explode as a figure rounded the corner of the building to their right, heading straight for them. His eyes frantically raked over the form.

A man. It was a man, not Caroline. _Godammit_. Joe had never fucking seen him before. He was wearing civilian clothes and heaved as he booked it right to their position as if he knew they were there. Blood was streaming down his face, coming from a cut somewhere above his forehead.

"What the fuck?" Malarkey breathed. When the man showed no signs of slowing or shooting at them, he jerked towards Joe and the others. "Fucking catch him when he gets here."

They barely had time to nod before the man barreled into their position. Ramirez, the largest of them, reared up, catching the man around the middle and taking him down in a football tackle. With a startled yelp the man fell heavily on his back, gasping as his sight fell over them and their uniforms. He opened his mouth, panic alighting his expression, when Joe scrambled over and landed a hard hand on his face to silence him. His other hand brought his knife up to the man's throat.

"Make a sound and I will fucking gut you," he growled in German. The civilian went white, air whistling in and out of his nose in rapid desperation.

Everyone else held their breath, waiting to see if anything else was going to happen. The camp went back to being silent and empty, their presence still unnoticed.

Joe turned back to their prisoner. "Has somebody been shot?" he asked, his voice low and deadly.

The man nodded his head. _Shit._

Joe removed his hand. "Was it a woman named Caroline?"

Instantly babble came out of the man's mouth, hardly making sense to Joe. He was completely panicked and lost his mind. "Blood and – shooting – they said I was – God, I was almost dead – And then –"

Joe dug his fingers into the man's jaw. " _Listen to me_. Was a woman named Caroline there? Blonde hair, with blue eyes? Busted up face?"

"Blonde, yes – she was – the man was there – Mueller, he said – oh, Christ –"

"Where are they? Where is she?"

He wasn't paying fucking attention, his eyes unfocused. "So much blood… I have never seen – it wasn't supposed to happen. We were supposed to be leaving - "

Grabbing the front of the man's shirt, Joe wrenched him up until they were nose to nose. " _Where?_ "

"The-the building – it's the – Jesus – Jesus –"

Joe shook him roughly. "Which one? Which building? _Which goddamn building_ , you fucking asshole?!"

The man's eyeblls rolled before finally connecting with Joe's. "Do-don't know n-name. The one back there, behind _that_ one." A shaky finger was pointed at the building to the right. So it was the second unknown building behind it.

Joe dropped him instantly and he landed back in the grass. "It's the building behind this one to the right," he announced, the words tumbling out of his mouth. He threw his knife back into his boot and snatched his rifle. He spun towards his sergeant. "Malark?"

Malarkey glanced at the now sobbing German before looking to Joe again. "Let's go."

Joe was standing before Malarkey even finished speaking. As they broke out of the cover, making a beeline for the Caroline's location, the man continued to cry out behind them.

" _D-d-dead! Everyone is dead!_ "

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Please review with your thoughts!**

 **Guest - here you go! :)**


	39. Chapter 37

**Ok, so don't throw anything at me please.**

 **I know this chapter is super super super late.**

 **But it is a long one! Like super, holy-cow long. I hope that means ya'll will forgive me.**

 **And my reason this time for the delay is a good one! I used to do 90% of my writing at work, but a I got promoted a few weeks ago. I've been so busy learning the new stuff that I've been having to cram it in at home at the end of the day when I'm tired and usually not in a writing mood.**

 **As I get settled in my new position I hope to find some more time so I can get back on a two week schedule. Please bear with me until then! I promise I won't ever abandon it!**

 **I love you guys!**

* * *

 _A sharp intake of breath. Hers or mine, I don't know._

 _She drops the dishes she is holding and they clatter loudly in the stillness. She sways on her feet, suddenly seeming faint as she looks at me. My voice chokes in my throat and I can't seem to move. This – it can't be real. She can't be here, right now, alive._

 _A loud clap of laughter comes from the dining room, startling and grating. It jolts us both back into reality and she shoots to her feet with it, whirls around, and takes off down the hall. Running away. From me._

 _"Wait!" I say, clambering to my feet and starting after her. I expect her to keep going but surprisingly she halts at my call, her head dropped and her body trembling. She doesn't face me._

 _I approach her cautiously, as if she is an apparition that will fade away as soon as I draw close. But she stays there, not facing me, in the dark passage leading to the kitchen. Reaching her, I can see the individual curls of her hair, the deprived sallowness of her skin, and her unstoppable shaking._

 _She is real. Under my touch on her shoulder is warm and solid. We both jump at the contact._

 _"You were… I thought…you were dead." She was. The gunshots, the bloody blanket – there is no way she could have survived. Slowly she turns, facing me with a painfully guarded expression. She says nothing, her eyes holding barely concealed terror._

 _"How did you…." My voice dies again as we stare at each other._

 _Her gaze flicks down to the Party pin on my collar and her expression grows even more distant. I realize what it means. I'm not her friend any longer. I'm one of the people keeping her here. I'm the enemy._

 _"I must get more coffee, miss."_

 _She is moving to leave again. I can't let her go. The one person who – it's_ Anne _._

 _I reach out to grab her arm and she immediately goes stiff. A closed door is to our right. I have no idea what could be on the other side, but it is a better chance than trying to talk to her in this hallway. She still faces away from me, looking longingly towards the door to the kitchen. The Party pin burns into my chest with the weight of my shame and guilt. She probably thinks I am going to do terrible things to her like everyone else._

 _I yank the door open. It's a washroom, empty. Pulling her inside, I shut the door behind us and lock it._

 _Trapped, Anne is petrified now and as soon as I release her she is pressing herself against the wall across from me, her eyes darting for an escape. I keep my distance, watching the desperation on her features with a stabbing pain behind my eyes._

 _"You don't have to be afraid of me," I try to tell her, holding my hands out in a pacifying gesture. She edges towards the sink, the whites of her eyes showing. "I'm not here to hurt you."_

 _She doesn't respond, watching me and the swastika on my collar. With her bony face and yellowed skin she looks even more fragile than the night we were found._

 _I swallow nervously. "It isn't what you think. I'm not a Nazi – well, not really. I am a Party member, but I don't think – I don't want – "_

 _What can I say, standing here before her like this? In these circumstances? I'm having_ dinner _with the very people keeping her here. All the evidence points to my own selling out, my agreement with those who killed her family. She knows that night was my fault. She knows I don't deserve her trust or her forgiveness._

 _Her hands fist in her skirt. The servant's outfit is baggy and loose on her thin body. She doesn't look any less afraid. I desperately search of something to say, something to make her believe that I still possess a shred of that little girl who combed her hair and had a terrible movie star accent._

 _Before I can think it through my fingers start ripping at the buttons of my jacket. She moves further away uncertainly, watching the undertaking warily._

 _Throwing the jacket in the sink, I tear my blouse out of my skirt and over my head._

 _"Miss," her voice apprehensively calls and something inside cringes when she still won't use my name. "I –"_

 _Her words are choked back as I pitch the blouse over with the jacket. Goosebumps break out on the exposed skin under my slip. I stop, fidgeting nervously, as I wait for her to take in the only proof I have that I am not completely evil._

 _My injuries are nothing compared to what she has endured, but her eyes are wide and she is silent once more. The bruised handprints and contusions on my arms and chest are stark in the pale light of the fixture above us. She blinks, coming off the wall slightly._

 _I stay very still, not approaching her. "I'm not with them because I want to be."_

 _She considers me a second longer, ashen and skittish. I slowly hold out my hand again. "Please, Anne. Please believe me."_

 _Her gaze moves from my chest to my open hand and back again._

 _I hold my breath._

 _Her eyes shine in the dim light._

 _"Caroline," she whispers._

 _At once the heartache, the ugly past, and the crippling emotion consume the air around us. We meet in the middle, hugging one another and barely muffling our sobbing gasps from reaching outside. It's the same Anne. Older, thinner, worn down … but its Anne. Her body trembles against mine and I feel the bones of her back through the dress. Four years. What has four years done to us?_

 _I pull back, wiping at my face. "How did you end up here? I thought that night…"_

 _The memories, still so severe and excruciating, freeze my lips. A pained, drawn expression crosses her face._

 _"We made it to the Spree before they caught up to us. Mother threw me in just before we were stopped."_

 _"But you were so sick, and your quilt was bloody. I saw it. I thought you had to be dead." I find myself gripping her arms tightly, afraid that if I let her go she would slip away from me again._

 _"Father cut his leg getting over the fence. He used the quilt to stop the bleeding from leaving a trail. After they were arrested I managed to make it to shore downriver, but was too weak to travel more than a few blocks. Your parents had alerted the network before we left so the other members were moving their Jews out of the city in case there were more raids. One of those groups found me and took me back into hiding. There was a doctor among them. He saved my life and I stayed underground, at least until we were discovered again."_

 _"I can't believe –"_

 _Footsteps._

 _They echo down the hallway and we both freeze. The mess of coffee is still on the floor and there is a muttered curse, followed by the banging of dishes._

 _Anne gives a gasp. "I have to go!" she furiously whispers. "If I get in trouble I will lose this work detail and not be allowed to leave the women's camp any longer. I need to stay here!"_

 _I don't loosen my grip on her arms. "No, Anne. I'm going to get you out of here. I can't leave you behind again."_

 _The banging of the dishes intensifies and she tenses under my fingers. "How can you possibly do that?"_

 _I stare at her, my mind blanking. "I could… I could – could… make you my maid? I'll say that I liked you and that I want to use you as my personal attendant. They have no reason to say no and the doctor would like the idea of me using a Jew for menial work."_

 _Yes, that was perfect. The sight of me ordering a Jew around would make the doctor and Henrich ecstatic. Henrich wouldn't recognize her – last time he saw her she was a child half hidden in the shadows. I could protect her until either the war is over or get her to safety in Switzerland. "You just have to follow my – "_

 _She cuts me off with a shake of her head. "I can't Caroline. I can't escape this place yet."_

 _"What?" There is more noise and I glance back at the door. "Why not? What possible reason could you want to stay?"_

 _She looks away, biting her lip. Her voice is soft. "There's… there's a…boy. He works in the ammunition shop. I – we're in love."_

 _Love? She found love in this nightmare? I stare at her blankly and she meets my eyes again. "We have a plan. A way to get out. Don't worry about me, Caroline."_

 _"Caroline!" Henrich's voice snaps outside the door. Anne startles, pulling away from me to press against the wall again. Her dark eyes fix on the door, terror on her face. I whip around, gulping and trying to slow the thumping of my heart._

 _"What?" I answer, hopefully in a level voice._

 _"Are you ever going to come out of there? It's almost time to go!"_

 _I look back at Anne. "Give me another minute."_

 _There is a loud sigh from behind the thick wood. "Fine. But hurry it up. We can't wait forever."_

 _His boots stomp away, leaving just the sound of the coffee being cleaned up._

 _"What is your plan?" I whisper, moving back over to her. She is still watching the door._

 _"I-I'm not sure of the specifics. Just that there is a way out. A tunnel."_

 _"When are you going to try it?"_

 _"I… I don't know. No one knows the whole plan in case we are discovered and questioned. I don't even know who else is coming besides me and Daniel."_

 _I blow out a breath of frustration. "I can help you once you are out. If you can give me anything, please, I will help you Anne."_

 _Her eyes fill with unshed tears. "I wish I knew more, Caroline. If I did you could come with us and get away from them too."_

 _Freedom. It's right there, dangling in front of me. My eyes are burning too._

 _"Is… is there anyone else? Who would know more?" I try urgently._

 _She digs her palms into her eye sockets. "Daniel would. It is all his idea."_

 _Daniel. In the ammunition shop._

 _I think of the man risking his own neck to look at me and Henrich. That takes certain type of recklessness and defiance. "Does he work the presses? The first one, just inside the entry door?"_

 _She bobs her head, surprise crossing her features as she drops her arms. "You know him? How?"_

 _I pluck my blouse from the sink and tug it on, tucking the tail back into my skirt. "Lucky guess. He eyeballed us on the tour and made Henrich mad."_

 _Her lips pull into a slight smile that immediately brightens her sunken features. "Can you find a way to talk to him?"_

 _"Caroline! Jesus, will you get the fuck out here?" Henrich growls again. The grin drops from Anne's face as quickly as it rose and she shies back once more. Grabbing my jacket, I throw on the tap to splash water on it before ushering her over to the door. She is shaking again, her face wan and damp with sweat._

 _"Just stay quiet and I'll do the talking. Look for me tomorrow – if I'm able to convince them to come back I will find a way to speak to Daniel and help you."_

 _She swallows nervously and nods. "I will."_

 _As I reach for the knob her hand darts out to grab my own, stopping it._

 _"It is good to see you again, Caroline." Her voice is hushed and thick. "No matter what happens."_

 _I squeeze her hand. "You'll get out of here. I promise."_

* * *

I'm awake when he visits next, sitting against the wall and staring at that old blood stain on the wall, my fingers tracing over the scab on my forearm.

 _Meine._

Did I ever have a chance? Should I have escaped with Anne? Would Joe had ever accepted me despite what I have done, regardless of how he found out?

Do I deserve his acceptance?

The stain is black and cracked with time.

 _Mother. Father. Anne._

No. No, I didn't.

The echoing of the lock turning is impossibly loud, bouncing around inside my head. I squeeze my eyes shut again the pain. It flashes behind my eyelids, pulsing and burning. It all hurts. Living hurts.

Pain and cold. My clothes are still damp. My fingertips are blue.

"So, have you come to your senses?"

He stands in the doorway, outlined by the lightbulb behind him.

"The last two years didn't change my mind. Why would a day make a difference?" I rasp, the words grating against my raw throat.

The sound of his footsteps echo just as loudly as the lock and I'm being pulled upward. He holds me by the front of my shirt, peering at me. My legs are limp and boneless and I hang from his grip.

I smile, cracking the dried layer of blood covering my face. My cheek throbs. "Ask your questions, Mueller."

Sanity is slipping away from me as drops of water through my fingers. Little by little my mind is disintegrating, finally succumbing to the weight of the past like a Roman pillar cracking and collapsing under the burden of an ancient shrine. So many lives lost. So much blood spilled. The root cause winds down to me and him, standing here in the cold and dank room. He is trying to reclaim the ruins like some lost emperor Theodisus. I want them to burn like the fires lit by the invading Barbarians we descended from.

Though I think even our feral ancestors would be horrified by this depraved, diseased carcass we have turned Germany into. We are going to be the ones ablaze this time. We already are.

"Why do you fight me like this?" He is speaking, his haughty tone wilting at the distorted expression on my face. "What is different this time? I offered you everything."

A loud laugh bubbles from my lips. "There is always a catch, isn't there? You can't buy loyalty, you idiot. And you certainly can't beat it into anyone."

He shakes me. "You ungrateful brat."

I throw my head back, wildly giggling at the ceiling. It is agonizing and maddening all at once. "What is the next question?"

His lips pucker slightly as he studies me guardedly. "Why did you come back from the Americans?"

I swing my face forward, meeting his gaze. "Because I wanted to tell you and Henrich to _go fuck yourselves_ in person."

A shout of rage and then I'm hurtling towards the wall. I hit it with a heavy thud that immediately adds to the burden of torture already coursing across my nerves. Air squeezes from my chest as though my ribs have tightened like a rubber band around my organs. Sliding to the ground, my muscles heave with a tremendous cough that shoots fresh redness across the tile.

"You don't seem to realize this, Caroline," his voice rumbles angrily above me. "If you do not start cooperating I will make sure you never see the light of day again, do you understand?" Despite the chill sweat beads on his temples as he shouts. He is cracking right along with me, this ambassador to a falling regime. His pride is useless, his uniform a liability, and his entire life an exercise in brutal futility. And he thinks he can threaten _me?_ That he still has any power over anything happening?

I spit out the blood still pooling on my tongue. "I am cooperating. I'm ready for your next question. You just don't like my answers. Go ahead, Doctor."

His face tics. "You don't get it do you? This is the end. I am your only hope."

"For what?" I snap, slowly lifting myself back against the wall. "What do you possibly think to accomplish in the little time we have left before Germany surrenders?"

"There will be _no_ surrender," he is yelling once more, stalking over to me. "What did that American tell you to convince you otherwise?"

I look up at him through my lashes, too paralyzed by pain to move my head. "Other than he couldn't wait to kill more of us? _Nazis_? He kept count, you know. Dozens of tick marks. And for what? _This?_ " I gesture dismissively at him. He snatches my hand in mid-air, dragging me upwards once more.

 _It hurts_. The taste of copper is nauseating.

"And yet you loved him," he hisses. "Traitor."

I find myself smirking once more. "Of course."

His hands release me suddenly and I crumple back to the ground.

There is no gleeful laughter this time. He exits wordlessly, slamming the door closed behind him and leaving me alone with the dissipating cloud of his fury.

* * *

 _"What took you so –"_

 _Henrich stops as he sees Anne creep out of the bathroom behind me, her head lowered._

 _"I got coffee on my jacket," I say calmly._

 _"So? You decided to have a heart to heart with a Jew in the washroom?" His eyes stay on the top of Anne's head, glaring. She shifts uncertainly._

 _"Really, Henrich?" I sigh pointedly and roll my eyes, even has my hands grow damp under the folded jacket. Anne shuffles her feet anxiously. "She's the one who spilled it on me. I made her clean the stain. I don't know anything about laundry."_

 _His face grows pink at my contempt and he shoot me a deadly glare. "Well?" he barks at Anne. "What are you waiting for? Go away."_

 _Anne jumps and shoots down the corridor, disappearing around a corner at the other end. She doesn't look back. Henrich grabs my elbow and starts towards the front door. We pass a servant – another Jew and another woman – mopping where the coffee stain was._

 _Evening is falling as we join the others gathered by the car. The air is still heavy with the smell of death._

 _"Frauline Alsbach! We thought we'd lost you!" Obersturmführer Rheinenmurh remarks, coming over to us. Henrich moves his arm around my waist. I grind my teeth._

 _"I apologize, Obersturmführer." I creak out a smile._

 _"I was most hoping you could sign some autographs before you left so I could have a memento of your visit. What do you say?"_

 _Henrich grumbles beside me. "We have to leave to get back to Landsberg by dark."_

 _I try to look remorseful. "I am afraid he is right. It is too bad we are not spending a second day here. Today was much too short." Henrich starts tugging me towards the car, brushing past the officer._

 _"Perhaps you could stop by for a few moments tomorrow, before you head back to Berlin?"_

 _The opportunity I need happens so easily I almost can't believe it. Turning back towards him, I smile more genuinely this time. "I think that would be lovely."_

 _He grins as well._

 _Henrich throws open the car door. "We don't have time. You have to plan our_ wedding, _remember?"_

 _"Perhaps we could discuss it with the doctor, for Karl's sake." I've got nothing to lose now. I wink at the SS officer. Henrich doesn't catch it. Karl's eyes begin to gleam._

 _"Dr. Mueller doesn't care about –"_

 _"About what, Henrich?" The subject of our conversation approaches, the kommandant at his side._

 _"Caroline was suggesting we come back here tomorrow. I don't think –"_

 _"We are of course always welcoming of any associate of Goebbels," the kommandant interrupts, his eagerness to please the higher-ups bald on his shiny face. "If you wish to see more of the camp I will would happy to have you again tomorrow."_

 _"And I would be honored to personally direct the tour. You can experience it through the eyes of the guards." Obersturmführer Rheinenmurh looks back at me. "It is much different seeing the action at ground level, trust me. We could even schedule a surprise muster of Jews. Very entertaining to watch them run around."_

 _My stomach plunges but I don't change by expression. Dr. Mueller runs his thumb across his mustache, thinking undoubtedly about how a second visit could benefit the propaganda._

 _"I would have liked to get some more pictures of Henrich and Caroline…" he mutters thoughtfully. Henrich grunts in frustration, knowing he was overruled._

 _"Well, then this is perfect!" Karl interjects. "You will come in the morning and stay with us for lunch. You will still be back in Berlin by nightfall."_

 _Dr. Mueller drops his hand, nodding. "Yes, very well. Thank you for your hospitality."_

 _"It is nothing. See you tomorrow, Herr Mueller," the kommandant answers, his large belly jiggling with a jovial chuckle._

 _Henrich throws himself in the car, not giving a goodbye. I nod to the men and turn to get in myself. At the last moment I feel a gloved hand grasp my free one. The Obersturmführer assists me into the seat like a gentleman, his hand lingering on my own before I take it back._

 _"I'll see you both tomorrow," he tells us, but he doesn't look away from me._

 _When the door closes Henrich immediately begins laying into me about his behavior and my encouragement, but I ignore him. The lights of the camp have been turned on, illuminating everything in bright, white glare. I crane my neck, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of Anne through the windows of the building, but can't see anything._

 _That didn't matter. She'll find out like the rest of the staff that we are coming back tomorrow and will with any luck get word to Daniel. If I can manage to get a minute alone with him I will find out exactly what I can do to help._

 _I lay back in the seat, thinking._

* * *

 _Mother. Father. Anne._

 _Joe._

Oh God.

I think I'm dying.

How long have I been in here?

Hours? Days? Weeks? Months?

I can't breathe through my nose. The air tastes of stale rust and the cold sinks into my skin.

My insides twist and turn. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling even though my eyes won't focus.

Waiting.

He hasn't been back. No one has. I'm alone. Abandoned and left to will away these last dragging hours of my life in misery.

Why isn't this over yet?

Finished. Done with.

Maybe it's part of my punishment. My toll for the failed attempt at redemption.

Ha, _attempt_.

More like selfish delusion.

Tingling pain eats at me. Thoughts are fuzzy and flitting. Breathing in short, painful gasps.

Yes, this is death lurking in the corners.

Waiting.

* * *

 _Frustrated and angry, Henrich drinks himself into a stupor early that night and I'm left to sleep in peace._

 _The next morning we check out of the hotel early and head back east once more towards the stream of ash billowing into the sky. My plan rolls over and over through my head during the journey and I don't even notice the encroaching smell until we are already slowing at the gate. Henrich is quiet and slumped beside me, his head limp against the seatback and his skin green with a hangover. Good riddance._

 _We are waved straight through this time and when we pull up to the Administration building Karl is already waiting. He opens my door and ushers me out. Looking peeved as well as miserable now, Henrich follows without returning the Obersturmführer's greeting._

 _"It is lovely to see you again, Frauline Alsbach," he announces gaily, offering his elbow. I take it, smiling at him._

 _"Please, call me Caroline."_

 _Henrich slurs a low curse._

 _Now having my permission to use my given name, Karl's face alights with hope and well-practiced charisma. My pulse slowly ticks faster as I watch him, knowing there is no turning back now._

 _"I am so delighted you decided to return so I can give you a more personal tour of Kaufering," he says, using his free hand to pat the one I have resting inside his arm._

 _"It is us who should be thanking you, Obersturmführer," Dr. Mueller answers. "You have impressed us greatly both with your enthusiasm and the operation you run here."_

 _He shoots a reproachful look at the seemingly-nauseated Henrich, who glares back._

 _"I'm afraid I cannot accept such an undeserved compliment, Herr Doctor. I merely just try to serve our Fuhrer the best I can."_

 _He's smooth. No wonder he is already an Obersturmführer. Tightening my grip, I move closer to him, letting him smell the perfume I doused myself in this morning. Partly to flirt and partly to cover the odor that surrounds us. "Where are we going first?"_

 _Please say the workshops. Please –_

 _"I thought a tour of the guard towers would be a good place to start. The view of the camp is great from up there."_

 _I bite the inside of my cheek to keep smiling. "Of course."_

 _The guard towers are followed by the canteen. Then the fences and gate. We go to the infirmary. And the bunkhouses. I keep my eyes on the floor as we maneuver around the fetid, crowded beds, but I don't see anything that could hide a tunnel entrance, at least in the one we entered. The camera flash follows us everywhere and Dr. Mueller is constantly shoving Henrich and me together to pose._

 _As we finish with the processing stations at the railroad dock, I could feel the burning need to find Daniel growing brighter and hotter until I am flushed despite the breeze and chilling weather. Henrich is sending weird glances my way as I dab my forehead for the millionth time before our picture is snapped again._

 _"Are you alright Caroline?" Karl asks me again as we enter the yard one more. It is empty and quiet this time. The workshops are tantalizing close, sitting across the flat graveled plane from us._

 _"Quite," I answer quickly. The morning is growing late and I could feel my last chance slipping away as we start towards the administration area once more. Swallowing, I point towards the building we entered yesterday. "Is that the ammunition shop we saw last night?"_

 _Karl stops, his gaze following my finger. "It is."_

 _"Might we go there again? I found the presses fascinating. The kommandant says it produced a record amount last month, correct?"_

 _"We saw plenty of it yesterday," Henrich intones from behind me, sounding bored. "What more could you possibly wish to see? It's just a bunch of Jews pulling levers, really."_

 _I look to Dr. Mueller, my heart stuck in my throat. "But we didn't take any photographs there, right? I think images of us inspecting munitions production could go over quiet well with our fans. It's the symbol of the war effort in the homeland."_

 _"It would only take a few moments. We do have time," Karl contributes and I shoot him a grateful smile. Henrich grumbles something under his breath._

 _"Yes, I think it would be beneficial to go through there one more time," Dr. Mueller answers and I'm already moving towards the tall, foreboding building, tugging Karl along until he registers what Dr. Mueller said and catches up with me._

 _"Is there something in particular you would like to see, Caroline?" he asks me curiously as we reach the door. "I believe this is the most eager you have been the entire tour."_

 _I stop, my hand on the door handle. "Is it?"_

 _My voice is high and reedy. As Henrich and Dr. Mueller reach us they look at me peculiarly._

 _I'm blowing this entire thing. I was never meant to be some sort of subversive. My parents were much better at this._

 _At least, until I blew the lid off the entire operation. Just like I'm doing again._

 _"The… I mean… I've… I've been thinking a lot about what the… kommandant said yesterday about the Jews."_

 _Where am I going with this? Something about Jews. That's always a good distraction technique. But_ think, _Caroline._

 _"Oh, really?" Dr. Mueller asks, tilting his head in question._

 _But there is hope in his eyes. I latch on to it, going with the first thought that crosses my mind._

 _"It really does make sense, doesn't it? The brilliance of having our enemies make the weapons we are defeating them with, and suffering while they do so. It is the strongest answer to the Jewish Question I can imagine and I admit I was being foolish when I argued with him about it. I-I suppose I wish to see the Jews working again with this new light in mind."_

 _"Do you?" Henrich asks sourly. The look on his face is suspicious. "That's an awfully quick turnabout from that rubbish you were spouting -"_

 _"How wonderful!" Dr. Mueller claps his hands together, cutting Henrich off. "I am overjoyed to hear this, Caroline. I knew my best student would come around eventually."_

 _The instinct to flinch at his phrase naturally shoots through my limbs but I hold back at the last second, smiling at him. He was so ready to believe. So ready to think his training had worked. It almost hurts inside to take advantage of his gullibility despite the fact that he is only evil._

 _I don't chance blabbing anything else and pull the door open. The familiar sound of hissing steam and clanking of gears greets my ears as well as the smell of metal and sweat. Stepping forward, I look through the murky, dirty air to the press Daniel had been occupying._

 _A different Jew stands there, pulling a tray of bullets out of the machine. The next few faces down the row are also unfamiliar._

 _Karl is saying something – probably repeating the same things the kommandant told us yesterday – but his voice fades into the background as I look at face after face and fail to see him. He would be here, wouldn't he? Anne had to have gotten word to him. Unless the plan has already been discovered and he and Anne were nothing but dead – dead –_

 _"Caroline?"_

 _I jerk back, whipping my head around and blinking. "W-what?"_

 _Dr. Mueller frowns. "I said, how about some pictures of you and Henrich talking to the Jews? Inspecting them, so to speak?"_

 _"I'm not fucking getting near them!" Henrich growls, his face already pink. Apparently I had been missing a brewing argument. "They are goddamn Jews. What if they have a disease or something?"_

 _"I can assure you that you are perfectly safe, Herr Lehman. None of my guards have gotten sick from contact with them," the Obersturmführer interjects._

 _"I'm fine with it," I add. Henrich sends me a glare as Dr. Mueller grabs his arm._

 _"Start cooperating before I remind you who you work for," he murmurs threateningly in Henrich's ear, so quietly I barely catch the words. He shoves Henrich towards me. "And watch your language. This is your last warning."_

 _Henrich sets his jaw and straightens his uniform as he comes up next to me. "This is a bunch of bullshit," he whispers to me. "If I catch something you better hope it kills me or I am going to wring your neck."_

 _I make a face at him. His eyes narrow dangerously just as Karl shouts some order towards the guards on duty, who proceed down the rows of machines yelling at the Jews to move. One by one the machines go silent and the men dutifully walk towards us, lining up perfectly as they reach us. Their movements are robotic, their faces empty and defeated._

 _Henrich goes first, walking down the row as quickly as he can, throwing short questions at the Jews who answer in monosyllables. The flash bulb goes off. I linger behind him, inspecting the faces of the men as I go by. They don't blink, staring at the ground as the hold their caps in their hands._

 _"Where are you from?"_

 _"Frankfurt, Fraulein."_

 _"Congratulations on beating the camp record last month."_

 _"Thank you, Fraulein."_

 _The faces are blurring together, a mixture of weariness and powder-covered skin. I did only get a brief look at him yesterday; I might not be able to recognize him if he is here. I look at the men again, hoping one will register before Karl ushers us out with nothing that will help Anne escape._

 _"Fraulein."_

 _The prisoner I've reached holds out his hand for me to shake and I stop in my tracks, my eyes flying to his face._

 _He meets my gaze. Daniel._

 _I stop breathing._

 _A gloved hand lashes out from beside me, snatching Daniel's wrist._

 _"An Untermensch will not touch the Fraulein," Karl snaps. Down the row Henrich and Dr. Mueller stop, looking over to us. Daniel's shoulders stiffen slightly and he slowly looks back down towards the ground. His arm is still outstretched in Karl's tight grasp, his hand stained black with oil and dust. Something, something very small, rests between his fingers. Paper._

 _Karl, standing on the opposite side of his palm, doesn't see it and keeps his glare on Daniel's downturned head. I flick my eyes between the slip and his face._

 _"Perhaps," I say, straightening in a show of confidence, "this is not such a terrible thing, Obersturmführer. After all, we have learned that Jews are without basic manners and prone to barbarism. Yet here is an example of one learning how to be polite directly in front of us. I am sure it is the direct result of the regimen your men have instituted here. You should be proud that such a thing learning how to conduct itself properly under your watch." I feel dirty as soon as the words leave my mouth but start pulling off one of my gloves. "I would be happy to return the gesture to reinforce such behavior. That is, if you think it is appropriate."_

 _Karl's mouth tightens as he watches Daniel, but he releases his grip on Daniel's wrist and turns towards me. "Of course, Fraulein, if you wish to bestow such a kindness on a Jew I commend your intentions. You are right that a truly civilized Jew is a rare find." His eyes harden on Daniel once more. "You will behave yourself. You know the consequences if you do not."_

 _Daniel nods quickly and I fight back the repulsed look I want to throw at the officer. I can ponder what those consequences would be and they make what I thought was torture mere child's play. Before anything else can be said I slide my hand into Daniel's grasp, feeling the rough paper graze my skin._

 _The flashbulb pops once more._

 _"Continue doing your good work here, Jew, and I am sure you will make a new record this month," I tell him, slowly pumping his hand up and down. His fingers loosen slightly and the paper falls into the open space between our palms._

 _"Thank you, Fraulein. We will certainly try," he replies, not looking at me and quickly tilting his wrist until my hand is on bottom. Just as I feel the paper land he lets go and I immediately close my fingers to keep ahold of it before dropping my hand to my side._

 _I turn away from both of them. "Wonderful, Obersturmführer," I say, working my hand back into my glove. The paper falls into the fingertip for my ring finger. "I am so glad we decided to come back for another tour with you."_

 _He smiles at me when I turn back around, his teeth white and straight. "The pleasure is all mine, Caroline."_

 _Feeling the paper rest against my finger, the skeletal form of a plan starts drawing together in the back of my mind. "I'm starving. Do you suppose lunch is ready?"_

 _Karl nods and offers his arm again. I take it, giving the inside of his elbow a squeeze and stalwartly ignoring Daniel. Henrich and Dr. Mueller are waiting for us at the exit, out of earshot. "You will be sure to sit near me again?"_

 _"Of course, Caroline," he answers, his own hand caressing mine resting against the wool of his uniform for a brief moment before we start forward again. "I am so happy you find my company agreeable."_

 _I give him a soft, knowing smile. "As am I."_

 _The table is set in the same fashion as last night. Fish fork, salad fork, and dinner fork on the left, dinner knife, fish knife, and soup spoon on the right. Despite it being midday we must be having meat; the dinner knife is sharp and pointed rather than the normal rounded edge. Henrich pulls out my chair once more and as we settle I grab my napkin to pull it across the silverware towards my lap._

 _As soon as I feel the knife handle under my fingers I tighten my grip. It slides silently from its place and I carry it underneath the table to rest on my thighs, hidden by the napkin._

 _The kommandant joins us. "Welcome back! I do hope your extended stay has been enjoyable."_

 _"Very much so," Dr. Mueller replies, contentment glowing on his face. "A second trip has been very beneficial in teaching Fraulein Alsbach the value of your operation here."_

 _The kommandant grins widely and turns towards me. "Really now, Fraulein? I trust my Obersturmführer has been a dutiful guide?"_

 _"Very much so," I gush and Henrich coughs uncomfortably. Underneath the table, behind the hanging edge of the tablecloth, I snap my pocketbook open._

 _"It is a pleasure to have such an eager student in Fraulein Alsbach," Karl replies, beaming at me. I smile back, carefully sliding the knife from underneath the napkin and into the pocketbook._

 _"Yes, today was_ so _very educational," Henrich adds loudly, annoyance lacing his voice. "I would take exception, though, with fraternizing with the Jews that the Obersturmführer insisted upon."_

 _The kommandant raised his eyebrows, looking back over to Karl. "Oh?"_

 _"It was my idea," I exclaim. "I thought pictures of us talking to the working Jews would make good print for the papers. One Jew tried to shake my hand and Obersturmführer immediately stepped in, much to my relief." I bowed my head at Karl. "But ultimately I decided to allow it, if only to support their attempts to be civilized. With the Obersturmführer there I knew I was in no danger."_

 _Henrich huffs. Karl's eyes shine brightly in my direction._

 _"That reminds me," I suddenly stand again, clutching my pocketbook. The rest of the men stand as well. "I must wash up before we eat. Please excuse me for a few minutes."_

 _They nod and I slip out, leaving them to discuss whatever horrible things about this place they find fascinating. Stepping out into the empty and dim hallway, I rush back over to the washroom Anne and I used last night. It's unoccupied and I slam the bolt shut to lock the door behind me._

 _Throwing my purse in the sink, I peel off my right glove and carefully upend it over my open hand. The slip of paper falls out, neatly folded, on my palm. It's tiny, smaller than my little finger, when I open it._

 _12 CASES & 00 BULLETS, 08 BELTS & 00 BULLETS ON THE ROAD FROM KF TO THE SO FRONT._

 _23 CASES & 30 BULLETS NEEDED TODAY_

 _THE NUMBERS ARE IMPORTANT TO BEAT THE RECORD_

 _What?_

 _I hold it closer to my face, reading the miniscule writing again._

 _I have no idea what this means. It looks like someone was keeping track of the amount of ammunition being produced. But what does this have to do with the escape? Why give it to me?_

 _Was it some sort of code?_

 _It had to be. The syntax was just a little strange and there was no way he could have been careless enough to slip me the wrong piece of paper. Perhaps if we were intercepted just now any guard who looked at it would hopefully assume it was some harmless count of bullets. It had to be a code to keep us safe. But a useless code nonetheless if I couldn't figure out what it means._

 _I lean back against the sink, studying the three lines._

 _THE NUMBERS ARE IMPORTANT_

 _The numbers. 12, 00, 08, 00, 23 and 30._

 _Letters of the alphabet? No, 00 and 30 didn't make sense._

 _Coordinates? No, not enough numbers._

 _Possibly each line meant something. 12, 00, 08, 00 on the first. Cases, bullets, or belts? Were those code or part of the façade?_

 _ON THE ROAD_

 _Odd wording for "shipped." KF stood for Kaufering, I knew from our travel documents. SO FRONT had to be our southern front._

 _Road. Kaufering. South. An address?_

 _12, 00, 08, 00._

 _12, 00 & 08, 00._

 _1200 & 0800 on the road from Kaufering to the southern front._

 _But… but what does that_ mean _?_

 _Cursing softly, I shove the slip in my pocket. I've been in here too long; I still need to execute the other half of my plan. I had to keep us here one more night._

 _Opening the washroom door, I poke my head out into the hallway. If I had any luck Anne would be around and I can get her alone for a minute to explain what this note says._

 _The hallway is empty and her face, terrified at the prospect of being punished for the coffee mess, flashes across my mind._

 _Hopefully they haven't done anything to her._

 _Walking on the balls of my feet to stop my heels from clacking against the wood floor, I creep past the dining room door. The sounds of the men talking and laughing are normal and reassuring that I haven't been missed._

 _As soon as the front door softly clicks shut behind me I race down the front steps of the administration building and around to the side where our driver has parked the car._

 _This area of the camp is quiet and empty, the car unguarded with the driver undoubtedly getting food in the kitchen. It's unlocked when I pull open the door. Sliding into the driver's seat, I pull the knife out of my pocketbook and turn it back and forth in my hand nervously. Do I try to cut the wires underneath the dash? Stab one of the tires? All were too obvious clues that the car had been tampered with. This needed to look incidental._

 _The knife is just slightly wider than a key. Would it fit in the ignition? Couldn't hurt to try._

 _It does, and I work it in until it knocks into something solid. The gears stop it from moving when I turn it clockwise, but there is some give - some sort of tight tension – when it goes counterclockwise._

 _Wrapping both hands around the handle, I lean back, throwing my weight to turn the ignition against the tension. The knife groans and bends, threatening to break, but then there is a loud pop as the tension breaks and the ignition spins loosely. The knife slips out with the sudden loss of traction and I'm flung back against the seat._

 _The ignition hangs limply against its casing, unable to accept any key. I shove the knife back into my pocketbook. I need to get back._

 _"Fraulein?" a voice abruptly asks. I jump, holding my purse to my chest._

 _The driver is at the corner of the building, a sandwich in his hand, watching me. How long had he been standing there?_

 _He starts walking towards me still sitting in the car. I'm caught. How do I explain this? What possible reason could be plausible for me sabotaging the car?_

 _"H-hello," I sputter nervously, climbing out. "I didn't see you there."_

 _He looks at the open door then back at me. The buttons of his uniform shine in the bright sunlight. Sweat beads in the hollow of my back._

 _"What were you doing in there?" he asks slowly, staring at me hard._

 _"I…" my fingers tighten on my purse, "I-I lost an earring." One hand darts up to grasp the jewel hanging from my ear lobe. "But I found it…under the driver's seat. It must have fa-fallen there."_

 _He squints, looking at my ear and listening to my trembling voice. "Are you quite alright then? You seem shaken, if I may say so, Fraulein."_

 _"You startled me is all. I know I am already late for lunch and I fear that the others will be upset with me." I spin back towards the front of the building. "Please excuse me."_

 _He doesn't respond as I walk away as fast as I can without breaking into a run. I'm reasonably certain that he didn't see me break the ignition. If he did I would be in his clutches right now, being dragged to Dr. Mueller. But he did seem suspicious. That is concerning if it meant a finger is going to be pointed at me when it is discovered._

 _I stop just outside the dining room door, taking a deep breath and working a smile back onto my face. Karl was falling for the spell I was spinning; the deal just need to be sealed. And Henrich kept unaware._

 _"Caroline!" Karl announces as I enter. "We were about to send a search party for you."_

 _"She takes her sweet time when it comes to washrooms," Henrich mutters into his drink while I take a seat._

 _"I realized that I was missing an earring and went looking for it," I tell him contritely. "I apologize if I delayed the meal."_

 _"Oh, I didn't notice. Did you find it?" the Obersturmführer asks. "I'm afraid if it was lost in the camp we will never be able to retrieve it. Jews are thieves, even in here."_

 _My smile cracks just slightly. "Yes, I found it in the car. Luckily it fell off during the journey here."_

 _"Wonderful!" he proclaims. "Though I must say you are most stunning with or without your jewelry."_

 _Henrich chokes on his drink. Dr. Mueller sends him a sharp look._

 _"Thank you, Obersturmführer," I say meaningfully, batting my eyelashes._

* * *

"There were so many tests, Caroline, from the very beginning."

I see his feet from where I lay on the floor. He sits in a chair, smoking as usual. I close my eyes.

"Tests to show your degree of malleability. How well you could be molded and shaped. Then tests to force you to prove your dedication and your worth to us. We pushed you past the breaking point to see if you came out on the other side in one piece. We only wanted the best. _I_ only wanted the best. That is why you were sent to this camp and why you were measured up against other children who didn't have your history of treason."

His voice is cold and empty, reflecting off the cold tile.

"And then the final test in this very room. We were so sure that everything had worked. So sure you were our perfect creation. After all, how could you come back from that? How could you still defy us after you had shed your own mother's blood? Once that line was crossed it was inconceivable to me that you could revert backwards, that your guilt would not be strong enough to keep you under my control if only to ensure that your crimes weren't, in fact, pointless. How did you overcome that? How did you come to terms with what you did and still decide to defy us? How did you convince yourself that you had a duty to the higher moral ground? And that ground was _Jews_?"

He pauses. My breathing rasps in the space between us.

"You loved that American Jew. I believe you when you say this. I know you aren't going to tell me what happened between you two, why you came back, or why he let me take you away after he found you in the village. In the end it doesn't even matter whether you believed what you felt was love or if you thought it was appropriate to follow in your mother's footsteps like it was some sort of genetic fate to love a Jew. Because it is all fixable."

In the blackness behind my eyelids I hear the cigarette being ground under his toe.

"You may as well know now. Your mother never had an affair. I made that up."

Everything is blurry when I snap my eyes back open.

"You worried me. You had the highest scores out of all the female recruits, but that did not surprise me. I stacked the deck heavily in your favor. Those other girls were picked because I knew they would fail. It was my own ego, my own vanity, which ensured you would win. Goebbels was growing impatient with my lack of results. I had to have something to show for all the money and time I had spent on this, my pet project. So you still worried me. I needed you to pull that trigger because I knew after that I had won. But getting you to do it was another matter. What child would be willing kill their own parent?"

I'm curling into a ball on the floor, burying my face in my knees regardless of how much agony shoots through me at the motion.

"You had become quite the little anti-Semite, though. Henrich kept an eye on you and your last year here you had no slip ups. That made me proud. And that gave me the idea to ensure your cooperation. You fell for it, just like I knew you would. The day you put a bullet in her, right over there, was one of the best days of my life."

My throat vibrates with some sort of noise. A wail or a cry. I can't tell. He doesn't acknowledge it.

"But this, admittedly, has to be one of the worst. Up there with the night I found out what you had done at Kaufering. So here we are, once more, trying to figure out what it is going to take to finally defeat you. You are probably wondering why I just don't finally kill you already for all the trouble you've caused me. Do you remember what I told you all those years ago, the night you were enduring your punishment for your failure on a conditioning run? At the flagpole? You have seed inside you. I still believe it is there, waiting and full of potential. I was not being flippant when I told you I am not giving up. I just need to figure out which is the correct button to push with you. This might actually turn out to be very beneficial to my research, really. You are really forcing me to deliberate the outer limits of what I can do to you. Things I would have never considered otherwise."

He gives me a few moments to respond. I don't look out from the cradle of my knees. The chair scrapes back and then he is gone, the lock turning behind him.

* * *

 _"Might I have one picture with Fraulein Alsbach and Herr Lehmann before you go?" the kommandant asks. We are standing at the car, a contingent of SS guards jockeying around us for autographs. I tease with them as I scribble my signature on pictures, magazines, cigarette packs, and even a bare arm that is presented to me. Karl stands closely at my side, eyeing the men as they tease me back. Henrich is on my other side, a similar look on his face._

 _"Of course," Dr. Mueller answers and starts herding Henrich and me over to the front of the building. The disappointed soldiers are dismissed with a gruff order by Karl._

 _The photographer raises the camera. Henrich's hand bites into my hip as he pulls me against him. We all smile._

 _Flash._

 _"Thank you again for accommodating us," Dr. Mueller says as we break apart to get in the car. The driver opens my door for me and Karl grabs my hand to assist me in. Henrich gets in the other side, his face sour._

 _"It has been a most pleasurable couple of days, Caroline," Karl says, reluctantly releasing me._

 _"It certainly has, Karl. Perhaps you will be able to call on us the next time you are in Berlin?" I look up at him, pleadingly. Henrich lets out a low growl._

 _"Of course. I – "_

 _Henrich is reaching across me, grabbing the door handle and slamming it shut in Karl's face. "I've had enough of this nonsense!" he spits at me. "What the hell do you think you have been doing?"_

 _"What?" I ask, my tone purposefully innocent. He picks up on it and grabs my wrist, his face turning red._

 _Dr. Mueller is climbing in the front and the driver is opening his own door._

 _"You know exactly what. Throwing yourself at him like a common whore!" His grip tightens and I let out a hiss of pain. Dr. Mueller's head whips around to look at us._

 _"What is going on? Henrich, for God's sake, release her until we get out of here. Not in public, you moron!"_

 _"Herr Doctor – " the driver starts._

 _"What do you think is going to happen?" Henrich snaps at me, his grip still painfully hard. "That he is going to sweep you away? That you are going to marry him instead? Do you think that I would ever allow you to leave me?"_

 _"Lehmann!" Dr. Mueller barks. He glances at the driver. "Get us out of here!"_

 _"Herr Doctor, I can't –"_

 _"Let go of me!" I shout at Henrich._

 _My door opens. "What are you doing, Henrich?" Karl fill the doorway, reaching for me. "Release her!"_

 _Henrich's sharp blue gaze jerks to him. "I'm not one of your draftees to be ordered around. What I do with_ my _fiancé is none of your fucking business!"_

 _"It is my business if you are hurting her. I won't allow that to happen, fiancé or not. Now let go of her before I remove you myself!"_

 _Henrich's face twists into a challenging stare. "Oh really? You want to fight me? Good. I've been wanting to punch you in the fucking – "_

 _Karl lunges forward, one hand grabbing Henrich's arm and the other going for his neck. Henrich meets him with an uppercut that snaps his chin back, but he charges forward and I feel Henrich release me as he goes to defend himself. I press back against the seat, suddenly in the middle of a brawl._

 _"Stop it!" Dr. Mueller cries, throwing open his own door. I also hear the kommandant yelling and a pair of hands grab the back of Karl's uniform. It doesn't deter him and he and Henrich continue to grapple in the tiny space of the backseat. Their bodies push me about as I curl up to protect myself._

 _Suddenly an elbow – I can't tell whose – flies into my face. I let out a screech as it collides with my nose, knocking my head back. I instantly feel blood start sliding towards my lips._

 _Everyone pauses, both fighters breathing heavily._

 _"Oh no. Caroline, I didn't mean –" Karl reaches for me, but Henrich immediately pushes him back._

 _"Keep you fucking hands off her."_

 _Karl's expression is pure hatred. "I could say the same thing."_

 _Before another fight can start they are both yanked out of the vehicle from either side. As I fumble for my handkerchief in my pocketbook I hear Dr. Mueller berating Henrich while the kommandant does the same thing to Karl._

 _I press the cotton to my nose, trying to stop the bleeding._

 _"Fraulein Alsbach?" The kommandant leans into the open door, his chubby face looking worried. "I sincerely apologize for this. I don't know what came over the Obersturmführer."_

 _"It's alright," I tell him, trying to smile from behind the handkerchief. "He only wished to help me."_

 _"Boys." Dr. Mueller joins from the other side. "I should have anticipated this. The young ones can never control themselves around pretty women."_

 _The two men share a hearty, knowing laugh. I look down at the drops of blood on my jacket, sniffing._

 _"I can have the camp doctor attend to you if you desire it, Fraulein," the kommandant tells me._

 _"No, no, she'll be fine. Don't trouble yourself. I doubt it's broken. We really must be heading back," Dr. Mueller answers for me._

 _"Herr Doctor," the driver says once more, tapping the doctor on the shoulder. "I'm afraid there is a problem."_

 _I look at them out of the corner of my eye._

 _"What?" The veneer of civility grows thin as he eyes the driver, snapping the word._

 _"Something is wrong with the ignition. The bearings have broken."_

 _"What do you mean, 'the bearings have broken?'"_

 _"I cannot turn the motor car on. The key, it won't –"_

 _Dr. Mueller snatches the keys out of the driver's hand and tosses open the passenger side door. Leaning over, he tries the shove the key into the slot._

 _It won't go more than a few millimeters in. The metal cylinder spins slackly._

 _"How in the world could this have happened?" he huffs._

 _"I don't know. It was fine when I parked the car. I didn't notice anything wrong when I found the fraulein in here looking for her earring."_

 _Dr. Mueller's head wrenches over to me. "You. Did you do this?"_

 _"Do what? I don't even know what you are talking about." I pull the handkerchief away from my nose. More blood starts leaking out. "I was looking on the floor for my earring. How could I have broken that…that key thing."_

 _Dumbness is always the best defense around these egomaniacs. Dr. Mueller rolls his eyes._

 _"That's the things with car these days, Herr Doctor," the kommandant helpfully chimes in, Karl watching me from behind him. "They're all lemons. I'm constantly having problems with my staff vehicle. We have a mechanic shop over by the guards' quarters that can get you all fixed up."_

 _"We are grateful for your assistance. Hopefully we won't impose on your hospitality too much longer."_

 _Behind the handkerchief I smirk, making sure Karl sees._

* * *

 _We are back in the administration building, lulling about some sort of study belonging to the kommandant. The late afternoon sun stretches through the windows, glowing on the bookshelves and maps on the walls. Henrich and Dr. Mueller are over somewhere in the guest quarters upstairs, Henrich no doubt getting an earful._

 _The decision was made an hour ago. We are staying the night. The driver is unloading our bags. Karl is in the study with me, nursing the bruise on his jaw with a bag of ice. The kommandant and some other camp officer are on the other side of the room, already downing whiskeys despite the early hour._

 _I stare at the book spines, holding a bag of ice as well to my bruising nose. I pretend to read the titles, but my mind is focused on that note._

 _1200 and 0800. What does that signify?_

 _The attempt is taking place tonight; I realize that much. As the minutes tick by and my brain meets dead end after dead end I begin to worry that I won't be able to help at all. All Daniel's trouble would be pointless and the Jews will be on their own._

 _"See anything you like?" Karl comes up next to me, grinning despite a swollen lip._

 _I keep up the charade automatically. "All of this is a little over my head, unfortunately." I gesture helplessly at the books._

 _He chuckles. "Do not worry, pretty girls have much more to offer than the bookworms."_

 _I let out a fake giggle._

 _"How is your nose?" he asks._

 _I keep my tone light despite the loathsome thoughts circling inside my head. "About the same as your jaw."_

 _He raises the ice pack to me in a toast. "We are quite the pair, aren't we?"_

 _Tapping mine to his, I wink at him. "Quite."_

 _We fall into silence and stroll past the books to stop in front of a large map of the camp and the area down to Landsberg. His finger reaches out to trace an outline in an open spot to the north._

 _"Someday, in the near future, we are going to start clearing this area to make a new addition. As the ghettos in Eastern Europe are liquidated we are going to have to increase our capacity to keep up with the shipments coming in."_

 _Liquidation. Shipments. I swallow. "More munition workshops?"_

 _He lets out a quiet huff of laughter. "Forgive me, I forget how you are inexperienced with the Fuhrer's plans."_

 _Something in me goes cold as the ice on my face. I press the bag into my nose, using it cover my expression as he continues to speak._

 _"That area is going to be used for new gas chambers. We have found it is the most efficient way to process incoming undesirables that are unable or unwilling to work. It's why we installed the high capacity crematorium."_

 _He tells me this in a detached, business-like voice as he studies the map. As he describes to me the death camp he and his superiors have planned out here. For the undesirables… the people._

 _"Oh," I murmur quietly._

 _He looks back over to me. "But this isn't appropriate talk in the company of a lovely woman. Forgive me. Sometimes I just get caught up."_

 _"Of course," I acquiesce with a nod, looking back at the map to avoid his gaze. The road names weave along the drawn lines in small, black print._

 _Karl shifts, becoming slightly tense, and leans against the wall next to me. I know what is coming. I had been hoping for it. "How long have you known Herr Lehmann?"_

 _I keep my eyes on the letters. "Most of my life, more or less."_

 _He bows his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Yes, I recall that you were in the Hitler Youth together."_

 _That's the story we had been using. "We were."_

 _"Has he always been so…so…"_

 _My eyes dart to his face. "Possessive?"_

 _He lets out a breath of air. "If that's what you want to call it."_

 _"He cares about me, almost too much really. It manifests itself in ways that might seem odd to outsiders. But he loves me." I keep my words low and drop my gaze to my feet, picking at the dried flakes of blood on my jacket to appear unsure._

 _He watches me in silent contemplation. "You know I'm not the press, Caroline. You know what I saw. I had my concerns about him since the moment I laid eyes on him. Anyone can see he's unhinged. You don't have to keep the charade up for everyone."_

 _Suddenly the burning pressure behind my eyes isn't fake. I blink rapidly, looking up at the ceiling. I've been hanging on by a thread for so long that even a hint of sympathy from this disgusting murderer has me suddenly turning on the waterworks._

 _"Oh, Caroline," he whispers, stepping closer to me. "It's much worse than what I saw, isn't it?"_

 _If he only knew what my clothes were hiding. I don't answer, watching the map once more so I don't have to see the look of pity on his face._

 _There are numbers, so small that if I hadn't been right up against the map I would have missed them, printed next to the roads. Hundred blocks._

 _"Blasted watch," the kommandant exclaims to his companion, tapping the glass face on his wrist. "It's stopped again. Do you have the time, Rheinenmurh?"_

 _Karl clears his throat and moves away from me until he's back at a respectable distance. "It's 1632, sir."_

 _It all comes together so suddenly I swear the click in my head is audible to the others. I drop the ice pack to my side, a wide stare zeroing in on the map._

 _1200 and 0800 road from Kaufering to the southern front._

 _The intersection of the 1200 block and 0800 block roads to the south of Kaufering._

 _23 and 30 needed today. 2330 hours. 11:30 PM. Tonight._

 _Oh my God._

* * *

 _Hessen and Augsburger._

 _Hessen and Augsburger._

 _Under the table, I tap my fingers against my thigh in time to the syllables._

 _Hessen and Augsburger._

 _Hessen and Augsburger._

 _The last course is in front of us and we are about to retire for cocktails. I'm sat between Henrich and Dr. Mueller, with Karl regulated to other side of the table to presumably keep the peace. He looks unhappy at this development and his gaze constantly flickers from Henrich to me and back again._

 _If Henrich notices he doesn't react. He has been silent since his time behind closed doors with Dr. Mueller unless a question is directly aimed towards him. His food for the most part is untouched._

 _I don't feel sorry for him._

 _Hessen and Augsburger._

 _Those are the roads whose intersection I'm to meet Anne and Daniel. I push my own food around the plate, not able to taste anything due to my blocked – but thankfully no longer bleeding – nose even if I had an appetite._

 _The door swings open and Anne enters with an empty tray that she lays on the side table by my chair. She moves stiffly, her eyes cast downward, and I try not to let my relief that she is still working here show on my face. Karl is watching me again and I drag my eyes away from her to avoid drawing attention to either of us. She doesn't acknowledge me as she begins gathering the dishes._

 _"Although it is unfortunate that you are not going to be back in Berlin on time, Herr Doctor, we are so thrilled to host you tonight." The kommandant wipes his mouth with his napkin. "I have just been sent a bottle of cognac from a friend stationed in Paris. It's a 1925, taken directly from the distiller's stash he attempted to smuggle out of the country. Not that inferior, black market stuff. I would be most honored to gain your opinion of it."_

 _"Of course – it would be a delight. Thank you for sharing such a treat," Dr. Mueller nods in return and they both stand. The rest of us follow suit._

 _Seeing this, Anne retreats against the far wall to wait for us to leave. As I linger, pretending to smooth my dress and gather my purse, her eyes sneak up to meet mine. Before anyone turns back to see what is taking me so long, I dip my chin in a microscopic motion that I hope she comprehends. I got the note. I know what it means._

 _I will be there._

 _Her gaze returns to the floor, but the side of her mouth lifts ever so slightly, causing the dimple in her cheek to crease._

 _Message received._

 _Looking away, I follow Henrich's figure out the door._

 _We are led back to the study containing the map and while the kommandant pours drinks my feet direct me back over to where it hangs from the wall. The intersection is a few kilometers south of the camp. Walking there would take me almost an hour but finding car seems as improbable as –_

 _"How are you feeling, Caroline?" Karl approaches my side, standing close enough that I can feel his body heat. I look past him towards Henrich slouched in a chair, ignoring the other camp staff chatting around him. His eyes meet mine and grow dark, but he only looks away and pulls out his cigarettes._

 _He won't mess with me again until we are back in Berlin and away from witnesses. I don't know how Dr. Mueller threatened him, but it seems to have worked._

 _"I'm better, thank you," I answer evenly, focusing on Karl once more._

 _He looks over at Henrich as well, his lips growing thin. "Our conversation earlier was cut short, much to my dismay." Shifting closer, his voice continues lowly. "I would very much like to continue it."_

 _Biting my cheek, I tilt my head towards Henrich. "Here?" I whisper, my eyes wide._

 _The ruse works and he whispers back, "Take a walk with me?'_

 _"Unchaperoned?"_

 _He offers his arm. "I'll take care of it."_

 _As soon as I take it he leads me away from the map, clearing his throat. "Hans?"_

 _One of the officers lounging next to Henrich looks up._

 _"Would you like to accompany us on a walk? The fraulein wishes to see how the camp operates after nightfall."_

 _"I would be glad to," the other man agrees and stands. I feel Henrich's glare cutting into the side of my head but he says nothing and I don't acknowledge him. The three of us head out the door, the doctor merely giving me a glance as Karl ushers me along, a seemingly confident and trustworthy figure in his black uniform._

 _Nobody suspects a thing._

 _The night air is chilly with the deepening autumn and I pull myself closer to Karl as we walk away from the building, down the quiet path towards the gate. Unsurprisingly, as soon as we are out of sight from anyone – mainly Henrich – spying on us from the windows Karl stops and pulls out his wallet._

 _"Appreciate it," he tells our chaperone, holding out a handful of bills._

 _"Don't mention it. Enjoy your night," Hans replies, taking it and tipping his hat towards me before taking off into the shadows between the guard quarters and supply depot and leaving us alone._

 _"That was easy," I mutter, watching him go. Very easy._

 _I look back at Karl._

 _I need a car._

 _Shivering harder, I draw away to cross my arms across my chest. "It is certainly cold tonight."_

 _He is already pulling off his coat. As he goes to lay it on my shoulders I turn, making sure the back of my neck is displayed in the lights from the fence posts. As the heavy wool settles on my shoulders I feel him pause and then cold fingertips brush the bruises Henrich made when he grabbed me in the car yesterday._

 _"Did he do this too?"_

 _I pull away and start walking, not answering and telling him all he needs to know._

 _He catches up and falls in beside me, his hands buried in his pockets. "Are you truly going to be married?"_

 _My breath fogs the air. "Yes, when we return to Berlin."_

 _He is silent for a moment. "Do you want to marry him?"_

 _Inhaling deeply, I meet his eyes. "No. I don't."_

 _His brow creases. "Then why are you?"_

 _"The choice is not mine." I shrug._

 _He connects the dots a few steps later. "It's for the propaganda."_

 _We round a corner and I see that we are in the open area between the bunkhouses and workshops. I stop, looking at the silent, dark structures. "People love an illusion. In pictures we are the perfect German couple to aspire and love. The message we spread is more important than my feelings, or the reality of what goes on when the cameras are not around."_

 _He sighs, his chest brushing my shoulder, and his hand goes to find mine. I clutch at it tightly, swallowing. When I speak again my voice wavers unsteadily. "It is for The Cause. It is what our Fuhrer wishes and so it will be done."_

 _"Caroline." His breath washes against my cheek and when I turn my head his lips are there. Before the automatic recoil grips me I force myself to relax, to not run away, and let his mouth move over mine._

 _It is not disgusting like Henrich's attempts, but I feel nothing inside as the Nazi kisses me._

 _Nothing._

 _When he pulls back his face shines in the moonlight, at once pleased and torn. "Don't go back with them," he pleads._

 _"I have to."_

 _"You don't. Stay here. I could get you a place in Landsberg. We coul –"_

 _I press my fingers to his cheek, shaking my head. "Neither of us can betray our Fuhrer this way. There is no stopping it."_

 _He bows his head, taking my hand and touching it with his mouth. "Of course," he murmurs resignedly. "Our Fuhrer knows best."_

 _Smiling sadly, I rest against his chest and feel his arms circle around me. "I'm afraid we only have tonight. I only wish we didn't have to spend it in this place."_

 _"Where would you like to go?" he asks into my hair._

 _I lick my lips. "Away. Even if only a few hours. Somewhere I can forget what is going to happen tomorrow."_

 _To my dismay he doesn't answer right away and we stand, wrapped up in each other in the unnatural quiet of Kaufering._

 _Maybe I should suggest we find somewhere more private? Away from here? That is going to give him a certain idea, one that I have no interest in fulfilling. It was a risk, but I have to get out of here._

 _Suddenly he stiffens, pulling back. I tense instantly, my idea dissipating in my throat as I watch him look at me with sudden suspicion. Had he seen through me?_

 _"It was you, wasn't it?" he asks, holding me at arm's length._

 _"What?" I answer, my voice rising an octave despite myself._

 _"The car," he clarifies. "You disabled the car."_

 _Of course. The car. The loud sigh of relief that threatens to escape me fill my chest and I force a sly grin to my face. "You caught me."_

 _His chuckle fills the silence of the yard. "Quite the schemer, aren't you?"_

 _My laughter sounds fake compared to his. "I couldn't figure out a way to keep us here otherwise. I wanted to spend some more time with you before I… I was married."_

 _Mention of my impending union brings him back to earth and we fall quiet again. What time is it? 11:00? Does he even have access to a vehicle?_

 _"Karl?" I look up to him, the words to ask him on the tip of my tongue._

 _He doesn't respond and I frown, peering at him in the dimness._

 _He is no longer focusing on me._

 _Staring intently over my head at something behind me, his expression abruptly goes cold and angry, a change that immediately has me pulling back. He doesn't notice, watching something a short distance away. Twisting around to follow his gaze, I see nothing but shadows. But then, slowly, there is a slight hint of movement, a blacker shape against the outline of the munitions building by us, sliding along at a cautious pace._

 _Karl sucks in a sharp breath of air through his clenched teeth. "Stay here."_

 _The iron in his voice leaves no room for argument. Releasing me, he steps out of our own cover of darkness reaching for something on his belt. A flashlight._

 _The bright beam lights up the side of the workshop and the figure freezes._

 _A Jew, one I don't recognize, holding a bag. He drops it, pressing himself against the building, his face showing his instant terror and panic._

 _"What are you doing out after curfew?" Karl bellows, stomping towards the poor man. The Jew doesn't answer, his limbs shaking and his legs collapsing underneath him. He curls into a ball on the ground, covering his head._

 _It's an instinctual reaction, I realize. And one that has me moving forwards too. '"Karl –"_

 _My attempt is too late. Karl reaches the prisoner and grabs him by his collar, throwing him on his back in the dirt. The man lets out a frantic yelp, still covering his head. Picking up the bag, the Obersturmführer upends it beside him._

 _Four cans of food roll out._

 _"Stealing?" he hisses, throwing the bag at the trembling, prostrate Jew, who still remains silent. He kicks his boot out, landing a strike in the man's side. "Speak when you are spoken to!"_

 _The prisoner lets out a cry of pain and some words I don't understand, possibly in Polish._

 _I flinch. "Karl, perhaps –"_

 _"Stay out of this." His head jerks towards me. "I told you to stay over there. Do not interfere with me doing my job."_

 _I can hear more people coming, drawn by the noise. I look at the Jew helplessly. He is speaking more quickly, all in a foreign language._

 _Karl hones in on him again. "I guess you don't understand, do you? Fucking Polish rat." Another kick. The man gasps in agony. I see more guards rounding the corner by the bunkhouses, jogging towards us. In the windows of the bunkhouses themselves dozens of pairs of eyes gather to watch the unfolding scene._

 _"Obersturmführer, sir!" A lower ranking_ _Unterscharführer_ _reaches us first. He looks surprised at my presence before the Jew's cries draw his attention once more._

 _Karl is picking the man up by the hair on the crown of his head. "He was stealing food. Why did the patrols not catch him?" He looks furious, even more so than in his confrontation with Henrich._

 _"I-I am not sure, Obersturmführer," the nervous_ _Unterscharführer_ _replies, glancing at me once more. "We did them exactly as scheduled –"_

 _"Then how did this –" he gives the prisoner a ruthless shake and I look at the tears running down the Jew's gaunt, dirty cheeks, "– slip by, hm? If I hadn't been here no one would have caught him. In fact I haven't seen one patrol at all during my escort of the fraulein!"_

 _More guards surround us and their stares flicker over to me. I bite my lip, still watching the poor Jew._

 _"I don't know, Obersturmführer," the nervous young SS officer finally replies, looking almost as scared as the man in Karl's grasp. Karl makes an irate noise and begins dragging the prisoner towards the bunkhouses._

 _"I am sick and tired of all the thieving these Judenschwein are getting away with. Food, clothes, medical supplies – it's only gotten worse! What is it going to take to get the message across?"_

 _"Should we call an appell, Obersturmführer?" the_ _Unterscharführer_ _asks, chasing after him. I follow as well, if only because I don't know what else to do._

 _"Do I look like I have the rest of my night available to watch them stand in the cold,_ _Unterscharführer_ _?" Karl snaps. "No, I am going to make this quick and crystal clear." He dumps the man in front of the row of bunkhouses._

 _The faces inside watch him warily._

 _"I know this may be hard to understand for a lying, thieving Jew," he shouts at them, kicking the prisoner on the ground once more, "but let me enlighten you. There will be no more stealing. Henceforth any Jew with any unassigned property found on their person will be punished. By that I mean_ any _property not specifically given to him by official personnel. If we find so much as an unauthorized hair comb punishment will be immediate. And what punishment would this be?"_

 _It happens so quickly I don't have a chance to try to do anything. One second the Jew was on the ground groaning and crying and the next a crack of a gun breaks through the air. I jump, my hands flying to my face. Maybe I make a noise or maybe I'm completely silent. I can't tell. No one turns my way in any case._

 _The man's body reverberates with the impact of the bullet and goes still._

 _A puddle of blood, so familiar and awful, starts pooling around his head._

 _I vaguely feels Karl's coat fall from my shoulders and hit the ground._

 _Karl puts his pistol back in the holster and walks away from the body as if it means nothing. As if it is nothing. "Who is the man assigned to the 2245 rotation?"_

 _"_ _Sturmmann_ _Wolfe, Obersturmführer," the_ _Unterscharführer_ _replies._

 _"I want him in my office first thing tomorrow morning."_

 _"Yes, Obersturmführer."_

 _"See to it that there are no more incidents tonight or you will be joining him. Understood?"_

 _"Yes, Obersturmführer."_

 _"Dismissed."_

 _Karl is walking back towards me, but his form blurs. Everything goes hazy and dim. I feel myself sway, suddenly disconnected from the ground beneath my feet that is slowly absorbing the blood of the dead man. The man being dragged away like a slaughtered piece of chattel. Already forgotten and meaningless._

 _Another causality to this insane place… this vicious and wicked system we have created._

 _What have I made myself apart of? How did I come to be standing here, in the middle of this unconsecrated plot of land that represents nothing more than the underbelly of evil we have discovered? With the taste of the personification of that evil still on my lips?_

 _I want to scream. I want to vomit. I want to rip Karl's face off. I want…_

 _I want…_

 _"Caroline?"_

 _I feel his hands on my biceps, steadying me. He shouldn't touch me. Murderer._

 _…Am I any different?_

 _I pull away, threading my fingers into my hair, ripping at it. I can't catch my breath. The stench of the camp lingers on my taste buds, metallic and sweet. Death. A constant companion. A constant specter breathing down all our necks._

 _The hands find me again. Pulling me. "I'm sorry, Caroline. My temper got the best of me. This has been an ongoing issue that we can't seem to solve and I just… You shouldn't have seen that."_

 _I'm clammy and cold, shaking against him. His arm circles around my waist, carrying me. "Don't worry, Caroline. It will be alright."_

 _His useless assurances weave in and out of my hearing. I can feel everyone looking at me, watching me being powerlessly hustled away from the stain on the gravel and the Jews who still do not make a sound._

 _I have to save Anne. I don't care what it takes. I have to get her out of this. She's the only one left I can help._

 _My stomach twists and turns with the knowledge of what I have to do. What I_ must _do._

 _"Caroline?"_

 _We are stopped, alone once more in some part of the camp I don't recognize. I blink once, twice, and slowly fixate on Karl in front of me. His mouth is turned down as he holds my shoulders in his grasp. "Are you alright? Would you like to go back to your quarters?"_

 _Enough of my brain is still working that I can shake my head. "Can we just get out of here?" The question is broken and begging, in a sick way more convincing than my attempts at seduction could aim to be._

 _He nods quickly. "It will take me a few minutes. I'll need to get some more cash to convince the motor unit to lend me a car."_

 _Okay._

 _Good._

 _I don't hear him leave, only feel the sudden cold breeze on me again. He hadn't given me the coat back and I stand in the frosty air, trembling not from the temperature, until he is suddenly touching me again and turning me towards a staff car idling on the path._

 _The heat is on full blast as he settles me inside. The abrupt hot rush against my face is burning and startling._

 _He climbs in the driver's side and minutes later we are gliding past the front gate, the barbed wire and despair turning into pine trees and moonlight._

 _"Where would you like to go?"_

 _Hessen and Augsburger._

 _I stare through the windshield._

 _Our destiny._

 _Air is sucked through my open mouth, filling my chest in a sudden burst of awareness. I grip the door handle, nails biting into my palm. "Landsberg."_

 _He turns in that direction, onto Hessen Road, without a word. My eyeballs are rough and sting against my eyelids. In the side mirror the moonlight splashes across my face from the breaks in the trees._

 _Smeared makeup. Tangled hair. Depthless eyes._

 _There is only one way, isn't there?_

 _I have to. There is no hope left for me. I am as doomed as Henrich. As Karl. As Dr. Mueller._

 _But Anne and Daniel have to make it._

 _There is an intersection approaching. The headlights bounce off the sign. Augsburger._

 _"Stop the car." I don't register my voice speaking. Everything is on automatic, like a dark, unconscious part of my brain has wrested control from the rest of me. From the part of me that might second guess what I am about to do._

 _"What? Why?" He slows, looking over at me. There are spots of blood, I realize, drying on his gloves as he holds the steering wheel. Jewish blood. Innocent blood._

 _"I think I am going to be sick." My tone is blank and low. I watch him, unblinking, until the car comes to a stop at the corner._

 _The clock in the dash reads 11:30._

* * *

My breaths are wet and grating as I lay on the tile, still curled inward on myself, when the sharp sound of shouting comes from the other side of the door.

"You son of a bitch! What the hell do you think you are doing?"

It sounds like the village doctor. There is a dull thwack and a groan of pain before the door is thrown open. Through crack in my eyelids I see Dr. Mueller standing there, facing away from me. "Bring him in here."

He steps aside to reveal two soldiers, holding a man between them. It is him, doubled over in agony. His feet drag on the ground as he is lugged past me and pushed up against the wall, next to the stain from my mother.

 _I killed her. For nothing._

 _There is no hope for me._

Leaving him propped up alongside the wall, the soldiers start towards me. A disturbing gagging sound twists from my throat as everything in my skin screams when I'm picked up and placed in the chair Dr. Mueller left next to me.

One of the soldiers moves back towards the village doctor. The other leaves, closing the door behind him. My chin flops against my chest and I lay limply against the seatback.

My arm falls across my lap.

 _Meine_.

Fingers snap in front of my face. "Caroline," Mueller snaps. "Wake up!" My head is shoved up. The lightbulb is glaring and fills the room with a low buzz.

With a harsh groan the village doctor straightens. He is sweating, his face pale and his eyes wide as he focuses on Dr. Mueller. "You've gone fucking mad! What are you going to do?"

A voice in my ear. His.

"Remember him, Caroline? The village doctor. Remember how much he hates you?"

I look at the man being held prisoner, not responding. Not able to respond.

"He made your life miserable. He made sure all of the villagers hated you. He was the reason you were never welcomed."

"What are you talking about?" The doctor tries to come off the wall only to be shoved back by the soldier. "That was what you ordered! We had a goddamn _deal_!"

"That's all you ever wanted, wasn't it?" Dr. Mueller murmurs. "To have friends. To ease the loneliness you felt with Henrich. To be loved. But thanks to him you were never more than an outcast. Never more than a _traitor_."

The words hiss through the haze sinking into my brain. I was so alone out there. So isolated in that prison of a house. But it was Dr. Mueller's fault. He told them –

"I only wanted to ensure that you were left alone. But he made sure you were reviled. That the only person who could stand you was the spy working for me. He didn't even want Greta to help you at the aid station that day, remember? If he had his way your American would be dead."

Joe.

Something heavy and cold is placed in my hand. A pistol.

"Think of all those years of suffering. Of pain. Of Henrich's visits. Of waiting… for what? You never knew. Think of that, Caroline, and show us how much you despise that village and how much you loathe him."

I know what he is doing. He is trying to stir that black creature he knows is somewhere inside me, poised to unleash itself at the first provocation. The one that makes me kill. He hopes it will lead me back to him, that it will turn me into the broken, obedient girl he remembers.

If I take more lives I will have no choice but to go back to him. Once I realize there is nothing inside me but an unlovable killer I will have to accept that his path is the only one open to a person like me.

There is a harsh wheeze of shock as the physician realizes what Dr. Mueller intends. "You – you – _No_!" He tries again to make for the door and the soldier lays a fist into his stomach, throwing him back. He falls to his knees, coughing. The soldier yanks him back, quickly tying him to the same post my mother used.

"You remember when we dropped you off out there?" Dr. Mueller continues. "You were so hopeful. You thought it was a fresh start. A new beginning. But then he showed up, your first visitor, and told you how this was only a purgatory for you. A new cage."

He stands straight again, looking down at me. "Shoot him, Caroline."

The village doctor pants in short, sharp breaths of panic.

My head lolls sluggishly from side to side, but my answer is clear.

 _No_.

There is a low growl and I'm being hauled to my feet. My knees buckle but he drags me closer to the quaking man. "You will do it, Caroline."

I struggle to force my legs to hold my weight, locking my joints until I'm finally able to shakily stand. I look at Dr. Mueller.

 _No_.

The light reflects in his eyeglasses. He holds me tighter. "No? Then you leave me no choice." Nodding to the soldier, he pulls me back away until I'm standing at the same spot as I was four years ago. The old bloodstain is a flaking black smear next to the weeping civilian. The soldier pulls out a pistol of his own and rests it against the doctor's temple. He shrinks as far away as he can in the bindings, crying harder.

"Shoot him, Caroline. You can hit him anywhere. Shoot him in the fucking foot for all I care. But you will shoot him, because if you don't I guarantee his brains will be joining your mother's on that wall."

Violence. It always comes down to violence. It's what opens the door to the unavoidable descent into the depths of anguish.

If I shoot him I will be back to where I started. I will be that impressionable twelve year old, willing to sacrifice anything for something as simple as a loaf of bread. If I continue this cycle and pull the trigger it may as well be my mother standing there again, looking so despondently at me once more.

But if I don't another life will be guaranteed to be lost because of me. Another tally in my fateful balance of souls haunting my dreams.

"Just wound him Caroline. That's all I ask. Do it and we will bandage him up and send him on his way. No harm done."

 _No harm done_. What a slippery slope.

I look at the gun in my hand.

The man sobs.

* * *

 _I rush into the woods, the branches smacking against me and the dead, drying pine needles crunching under my feet. Karl follows, calling my name, as I lead us away from the still running vehicle._

 _The dark forest is thick around us when I stop, falling to my knees. His presence hovers behind me as he asks what I'm doing and what is happening. I don't answer, sucking in the fresh air and curling my hands into the bed of needles and dirt._

 _Stretched out around us is a dotting collection of rocks, just like I figured there would be._

 _He wraps an arm around my middle, bringing me back upright. My hair hangs in my eyes, hiding the awful glint I know is there._

 _"What is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?"_

 _I don't answer, not paying attention to him. Time is ticking. If they weren't discovered they should be here. I listen through the deathly still woods, waiting for some sign they got out._

 _He shakes me roughly. "I'm taking you back. I don't know what the hell –"_

 _A twig snaps loudly under the weight of a foot somewhere behind him. He jerks still, suddenly going on alert. Releasing me, he whips around, he stares into the unwelcoming blackness around us._

 _In the distance, towards the camp, a faint wail starts, growing stronger with every passing second._

 _A siren._

 _Karl's spine goes rigid. I don't move as I watch the tension and fury fill his form as he realizes what is going on._

 _The cold darkness presses in on us._

 _"Someone is trying to escape." He says. His voice is low and frightening. "I need to get back."_

I'm sorry.

 _He goes to turn but I reach him first, swinging towards the back of his skull._

 _The rock makes contact with a dull thud that sinks into my head with ugly finality. He lets out a loud, startled yelp and falls to his knees. Blood seeps through his oiled hair, crawling down the back of his neck._

 _But he doesn't collapse._

 _I back away as he stays upright, his eyes swinging to me in unbridled, rabid fury as he figures out what I mean to do._

 _"You!" he cries, touching a glove to the wound and looking at the fresh red liquid. "You planned this!"_

 _He leaps to his feet and barrels towards me. I jerk to try to get out of his reach but he is too quick. Catching me by the waist, he throws me to the ground. I cry out, kicking at him, but he thumps his weight on top of me and his hands clamp down on my throat._

 _"I'm going to fucking break your neck! You fucking traitor! You Jew-loving bitch!" He shouts, spit flying from his mouth. It hits my face the same time blood slides down his temple to splatter across my cheek. I try swinging the rock again, but I don't have enough room and it smacks against his arm weakly. I gasp, black spots dancing in my vision, as I realize he is going to kill me._

 _I hope Anne survives even if I don't._

 _But really, I never expected I would._

* * *

"Caroline!" Dr. Mueller barks. "We don't have all day."

I drag my eyes from the gun back to the village doctor.

"Please don't," he begs, pulling against the rope.

"Shoot him or we will. Is that not enough of an incentive for you? Do you want to die too?" Dr. Mueller pulls out his own pistol, playing with it in his hand. "Do I need to make it clear that unless you follow my instructions you will never leave this room? You will rot in here along with him and the remnants of your mother."

The room sways. I feel the cold air brushing my skin and my wet clothes. The choice was no choice.

I have no alternative.

My hand tightens around the rough metal grip.

* * *

 _My heart pounds in my ears. My lungs scream for oxygen. Sound fades, his yelling becoming a distant, hollowed sound._

 _Just blackness and silence._

 _The hands around my neck jostle and the faint voice becomes harried and surprised._

 _Shadows, moving up behind him. Striped pajamas in the moonlight._

 _The hands are ripped from neck, fingernails taking chunks of skin. My chest spasms automatically, filling with air and letting out a ragged cough._

 _I roll over on my side, gulping, and my vision shutters back into focus._

 _Karl is on his back. The Jews are around him, trying to hold him down. He's fighting against them, yelling with rage and flailing against their bony frames. There are five of them, but they are weak with hunger and disease and can barely hold onto him._

 _Scrambling to my knees, I grab the rock once more and crawl over to them. The pine cones imbedded in the ground tear open my stockings and the skin underneath. Circling around them, I reach Karl's head, holding the rock in both hands. I raise it above me, hovering over him._

 _He looks up at me, his face silver in the light and his eyes black._

 _"You'll pay for this," he howls, unnatural and horrible._

 _I bring the rock down._

* * *

I point the pistol, the sights steady on the village doctor. He lets out cry, wincing and turning his head away.

* * *

 _The sound of bone breaking. Karl screams, loud and clear. Lifting the rock, I bring it down again._

* * *

I wrap my finger around the trigger.

* * *

 _Again. The screaming becomes gargled with blood._

* * *

"You were always my best student." Dr. Mueller purrs. I twitch, the gun jumping on my target.

* * *

 _Black wetness sprays across my clothes when I lift the rock once more. Again. The screeching is cut off._

* * *

Dr. Mueller isn't prepared when I move. His pistol is still laying limply in his hand and he can't bring it up quickly enough. His eyes widen in hasty, unmasked alarm as I swing towards him. He thought he knew what was going to happen. Because he knows me so _well_.

* * *

 _Again._

* * *

There are no words. No majestic speech. No rundown of everything he's done to me and how he deserves this.

He is distinctly aware.

I fire.

* * *

 _Blood splatters across my face. The rock is slippery in my grip. The SS patches on his uniform are soaked black. Again._

* * *

His head snaps back and an instant later his body flops backwards, crumpling to the ground. The pistol crashes to the floor, sliding away. His glasses are knocked free and shatter against the tile, leaving his open eyes staring at me. Empty.

The mustache disappears under a growing red tide coming from the hole in the middle of his forehead.

Dr. Mueller is dead.

* * *

 _Karl is dead. His body doesn't move. He makes no more noise. But I can't stop. Again._

* * *

I blink once, looking at the body. Behind me there is a slight whimper and my head turns towards the village doctor. The soldier next to him is staring at Dr. Mueller, stunned with shock. My shoes scuff on the floor as I turn and his eyes jerk up to meet mine.

"S-shit!" he stutters, automatically aiming at their prisoner and pulling the trigger. The doctor flinches and screams just as the gunshot sounds.

Mine follows a second later. The soldier falls backwards, colliding with the wall and sliding down into a lifeless pile.

* * *

 _"Caroline!" Someone grabs me, pulling me away. I cry out, catching myself with my elbows. The rock tumbles away, disappearing in the shadows._

 _Karl is still on the ground, unrecognizable. My eyes are wet and I realize that I am crying._

 _"Caroline," a voice soothes. "It's okay." Hands stroke my hair. A face fills my vision._

 _Anne._

 _She is dressed in men's clothes, looking down at me and wiping some of the blood from my face with her sleeve. "It's okay," she repeats. "He's dead."_

 _"Oh, Anne." My voice cracks and I grab her, pulling her to me. My tears soak into the shoulder of her shirt._

 _"I know," she whispers in my hair, hugging me back. "I know."_

 _"We need to get going," another voice says, softly and urgently. It's Daniel, standing behind her._

 _I take a deep breath, pulling away. "There's a car at the intersection. The keys are in it and its running," I tell them shakily._

 _He nods, helping Anne to her feet before offering a hand to me. I waive it off, standing myself and not looking at Karl._

 _"Thank you for this," Daniel says._

 _I only dip my head._

 _Anne grabs my hand. "Come with us, please."_

 _Looking at her, I know I can't._ _Dr. Mueller would never stop searching for me. Neither would Henrich. I'd be nothing but a liability. Tears fill my eyes again_ _. "I'm too recognizable. It's too risky._ _I'll stay here and try to stall them."_

 _The other Jews disappear into the trees, heading for the intersection. Anne pulls me to her again, now crying as well._

 _"I'm so sorry for everything," I say softly, squeezing her tightly. I am – for her family and for mine. For all my reckless mistakes._

 _She pulls back. "We will meet again one day, after this nightmare has passed. I know it." Pressing a kiss to my cheek, she takes Daniel's hand and starts for the forest as well._

 _"Goodbye, Caroline."_

 _"Goodbye, Anne."_

 _She melts into the dimness once more and I'm left alone with the remnants of the man responsible for so much of their pain. A few minutes later I hear a car shift into gear and take off west, gaining speed._

 _The siren sounding at the camp is joined by the barking of dogs. They had started tracking._

 _I settle next to Karl's feet, drawing my knees to my chest._

 _And I wait._

* * *

The gun falls from my hold with a clatter as I stare at my two victims.

Across the room there is another high-pitched whine. The village doctor is still alive.

He straightens against the post, a fresh wound streaking across his scalp. The bullet missed its target. He looks around wildly, jerking against the restraints.

"Shi – what the – oh my God…"

Stumbling towards him, I land heavily on the wall next to the stain. My hands are white and shaking so hard I can't get the knots of the rope undone. The doctor continues to mumble nonsense, not looking at me or seeming to know I'm there. When the rope finally loosens he falls to his hands and knees, his entire body jerking with devastation he just witnessed. My legs start trembling, threatening to fold under me, and I know I don't have much time.

"Go," I tell him, the effort to make the word making me dizzy. It seems to reach him and he shoots upward, making for the door.

He leaves without a second glance.

I guide myself along the wall and take the final few painful steps before everything tilts and I collapse into the chair. Slumping forward, I stare at the ground between my feet. The lines of the tile squirm and move.

There is one more soldier, somewhere out there. He is going to come investigating, if not for the noise or the running civilian, then for the doors left open to this place.

My shoulders heave up and down with the labor of continuing to breathe. Just a little longer. Then this scene will be found and I will join the rest of them in Hell.

I close my eyes.

And I wait.


	40. Chapter 38

He flew across the gravel, barely noticing anything else around him but the path ahead of him, towards her.

Dashing around the first building, Joe sped up as he approached the small, square structure the civilian pointed out. The door was flung open, revealing nothing but part of a cement wall and floor. He nearly barreled right inside, but his training grabbed him at the last second, yanking him back and making his heels skate in the dirt.

 _Don't get your fucking head blown off, Joe._

Sliding to an abrupt halt just outside, Malark steps behind him, Joe carefully craned his neck around the corner to get a visual on what was waiting for him.

There was some sort of short dimly lit hallway, completely empty and bare. Another door was at the end, also ajar. He couldn't see anything past it other than a swipe of blood on a visible section of the tile.

Everything was deathly silent and his heart thrashed against his ribs. Behind him, Malarkey stopped against the larger building to motion back to the squad to follow before moving forward again to join him.

Sticking the butt of his rifle into the hollow of his shoulder and raising it in front of him, he crept into the hallway cautiously, the muscles of his legs quivering as he tried not to sprint towards the room he knew she was in. A clammy sweat sprang across his forehead and he focused on placing his feet one in front of the other to not trip from the distracting panic barely controlled in the back of his mind. Slowly moving towards the rectangle of light, his ears strained for any noise to tell him what was ahead. A voice, a movement, or, hell, even a fucking sigh. Something to show him that there was a chance that what was on the other side of the wall was not going to shatter him and that there was hope that at least _someone_ was fucking alive.

However there was nothing but the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears and he sensed himself starting to disengage, starting to come loose as the infernal silence told him that there was nothing left for him except a dead shell of the woman he failed to save. Nothing left but sightless blue eyes telling him everything he had done wrong and charge him with the grief he would shoulder until he finally shattered under the burden of his own conscience.

His feet stopped just next to the doorjamb and he pressed himself against the wall. Swallowing, he looked down at the smeared, bloody shoeprints tracking across the threshold. They were probably from the civilian, he told himself. As to whose blood it was…

 _God, what if –_

Malarkey nudged Joe's shoulder from beside him. He needed to move.

 _Just turn. Turn the corner._

Taking in a deep gulp of air, he swung his head around the frame to survey the scene.

The air was heavy and polluted, stinking of perspiration, gunpowder, and gore. His attention was immediately drawn to two figures sprawled on the floor.

They weren't her.

He didn't know the one dressed as a soldier, but the other registered with him as matching the photographs he had seen in both in Nixon's files and the _kommandant's_ album. Dr. Mueller.

Both had been shot in the head. They were dead.

Sweeping across the filthy ground, he settled on a third figure on the other side of the room. Pressing against the doorframe, he leaned in farther.

She was sitting with her back to him, slumped forward, but even with her blonde strands dirty and knotted he recognized her immediately.

Caroline.

 _Caroline_.

As soon the realization connected his mind he was pushing off the wall automatically to leave Malarkey behind, feeling the magnetic pull drawing him into the room and towards her.

 _It was her_.

He dropped his rifle to his side, never moving his eyes from her figure, and crossed over the blood stained tile like a compass drawing towards north. He couldn't help it, even if he knew he was the last person she wanted to see. Even if he was the cause of her being here, amongst these dead bodies and spray of carnage painted on the walls and floor. As he came upon her, boots sliding in the red puddles under his feet, he couldn't think of anything else but reaching her… touching her… ensuring to himself that she was actually here and really alive.

He moved until he was finally just behind her and staring down at her bowed head with bated breath. Her elbows were on her knees to keep her upright and in the blanket of somber quiet her breathing was loud and ragged. He saw his hand reaching out towards to let her know that he was there.

She didn't move. His hand froze, hovering a few inches from her.

What if she hated him? What if what she told Henrich about _love_ was just a ruse to get under that Nazi's skin? What if the sight of him caused her nothing but more pain and misery? The image of her turning, her blue eyes landing on him and widening with surprise before narrowing in loathing. He imagined hearing her hurl words at him to get out, to leave her alone, and to go to hell. He thought of himself on the receiving end of that same callous anger he directed at her that night in the woods.

What if that happened? What if she didn't want to come with him? They had their orders to bring her to Nixon that they had to obey. He saw her fighting him as he took her, clawing and kicking at him to get away like she did the night they met. He saw the others helping to restrain her and dragging her out of here. Showing her they were no better than the men she just escaped from and that she would never be free.

He stood behind her, paralyzed by that scenario playing out in his mind, and his suspended hand trembled.

Before him her head moved slightly, tilting to the left, as she acknowledged the presence of someone with her. He retracted his arm and swallowed, the words to tell her who it was not forming in his brain.

In the stillness her voice rose to him abruptly, a stunted, rasping sound.

"Go… ahead." She shuddered. "Do it."

Do what? Did she already know it was him? Did she expect him to finally follow through with what he tried to do in the woods? _Shoot her?_

She leaned further forward, making a dreadful wheezing sound that cut through his chest. "I… shot them. I'm sure Mue – Mueller gave you your… orders. Ju – just finally… do it. Kill me."

He took a step closer, his hand rising again on its own accord. She thought he was one of Dr. Mueller's men stumbling upon this bloodbath. She thought she was about to get a bullet in the head.

His fingers found the worn sweater on her shoulder. The fabric was wet and she was cold underneath. An instant cower made her precariously list to the side, but she regained her balance and continued looking at the floor.

"Do it," she told him again, her speech dying away to a weak, shaking whisper. "Please."

It was that _please_ that finally got him, breaking through his doubt and anxiety about her reaction to his face. It was a plea, a desperate wish for absolution from this mortal plane that she believed he could deliver.

He had been right before. She had lost all hope. He had crushed it in those woods as thoroughly as Mueller and Henrich crushed her body afterwards. She had been pushed past the point of any recovery or any dream that he could save her. Now she only wanted death.

His insides clenched in agony, almost making him collapse from where he stood. What had he done? How could he ever gain forgiveness for _this?_

It was a foolish thought to believe that the depths he could throw himself into were only paved with violence. Listening to her, he realized that there was a much deeper pit, a much more desolate place, for him to find. Betrayal. Heartbreak. Indifference – emotions that led to a state that did not burn with a fire of revenge, but instead screamed with devastating emptiness. Seclusion, with only his offenses to keep reminding him of how worthless he was and how he never deserved her.

The world in which he had always dwelled was ruthless and cruel. Breaking bodies was what he thought made him one of the permanently damned, but as he watched her shake in front of him he came to the conclusion that the breaking of her spirit would always be the greater sin. The demons who taunted him in battle and with Henrich were silent, but instead of relief all he felt was the barren despair for his own decisions and what they led him to do.

The level to which he had sunk was never going to be one he could rise from again as long as Caroline suffered like this, from actions that may have well been done by his own hand.

It was his fault. All of it. He had torn from her everything she held dear, including her own life.

His rifle tumbled to the floor and he found himself stumbling forward, rounding the chair to face her. He had to see if her, if only to punish himself with the sight of her ruined and pleading. As he fell to his knees at her feet, wetness soaking through the cotton of his pants, his frozen vocal cords finally cooperated to produce a single, pathetic sentence:

"I'm sorry."

She didn't answer.

The stained fabric of her skirt blurred in his vision. Her hands hung in front of his face and he grabbed at them even as she started to rear back in the seat, her noisy breaths growing louder. He clutched at them tightly, bringing them up to his suddenly flushed cheeks and cradling the icy skin against his own.

"I'm so sorry, Caroline," he murmured again, his ability to speak hobbled by a strange lump quickly filling his throat. "I can't… I want…." Things churned within him, so many emotions hitting him at once that he lay helplessly desperate in front of her, imploring for the one thing he knew she wouldn't give.

He could see the ugly bruises on her hands. Her sleeve was torn open and the word Henrich so giddily told him about was bare to see slashed across her pale skin. She was quivering under his grip, trembling with either cold or fear or pain.

Bracing himself to look upwards, he slowly raised his head until her face finally appeared under the rim of his helmet.

She hung in a worryingly slouch, but stared at him from behind the swelling of her cheeks and dried blood rubbed across her features. Her blue gaze was locked on him. She didn't move. Nor did she speak.

The sight of her shot through him like a cannonball and he squeezed her hands more tightly. "Caroline?" Taking a risk, he carefully reached up to brush some of the sticky hair out of her face. She still didn't react, watching him as her chest heaved noisily up and down. In the back of his mind he discerned the awful clamor her lungs were making.

Then her eyes slowly slid shut, her hand resting limply in his.

He waited, the seconds dragging by, but she didn't open them back up. Her long lashes fanned against her colorless skin.

His apprehension steadily increased as he watched her blank face and just as he was about to frantically check her pulse her lips moved.

"Joe. " The frail sound of his name echoed inside his head. "You're… here."

The lump in his throat intensified and he reached for her once more, gently touching her angrily blackened jaw. She didn't seem furious, at least at the moment, and a sliver of hope began winding through him. "I am, darlin'."

"I-I didn't think…you… would be." She stumbled over the syllables, her brow wrinkling.

He couldn't think of what to say or how to begin to explain himself. He could only repeat what he hoped she would hear. "I'm sorry."

He would be sorry until his dying day.

"But…why? Why… here?" Her eyes opened again, straining to focus on him. "You're not dead. Everything…still hurts." She looked past him, taking in the walls of the room once more. "I thought… it-it'd be – Is th-this it?"

He stilled his thumb on her face, confusion gripping him. "What do you mean? Is this what?"

She didn't seem to hear him, swinging around to focus on him again. "You shouldn't be here," her voice cracked, her hand turning in his to grip his fingers. "You aren't dead, aren't you?"

Roving over her distraught, frightened expression, he realized what she meant. And it nearly killed him.

"You are still alive, sweetheart," he said softly.

Her eyeslids drooped once more and she took another rattling breath. Shaking her head from side to side as if to try to clear it, she leaned back forward until her face was close enough to his that he could see the individual broken capillaries in her skin. The movement was unsure and he dropped his hand from her jaw to her side to steady her.

"Alive?" she muttered under her breath.

"Yes," he answered, leaning back on his heels and ducking his head to look upon her downturned face. "I'm going to get you out of here."

Her eyes opened back fully once more as his promise sunk through the haze she seemed to be operating in and met his own, that blueness intensifying as she looked at him more fully.

"Alive." It wasn't a question this time. "That m-means you… you're…"

Watching the comprehension cross her expression, he kept quiet as she slowly came to terms with what was happening. His left hand was still being held by hers and her free hand joined it to wrap around his wrist, using his arm like a life raft as her body shivered even more severely.

"J-J-Joe," she stuttered, wincing in pain as she did so. "Y-you're… _here_."

The feeling was back in his stomach, torqueing his insides until his eyes were watering again. "Right here, Caroline."

Right where he wanted to be.

There was a congested gasp and she sudden jerked back from him, turning her head away. Spasms rocked her chest and a series of barking coughs emerged, each growing louder and sharper. He rose up to his knees, reaching for her, when suddenly her skin lost the last of its color and her hands clamped down on his sleeve. A struggling, wounded sigh followed the coughs and she keeled forwards, heading for the floor even as she held onto him.

He reacted quickly, grabbing her waist and pulling her toward him so her momentum carried her onto his chest instead of the wet ground. Her forehead hit his shoulder at the same time her fingers released him and she sank into his embrace, letting out a faint sob that rang in his ears.

"It's alright. I've got you," he reassured, easing her the rest of the way out of the chair and into his arms. He gathered her against him, one hand supporting the back of her head as he leaned backwards. "I've got you."

Working his jaw to beat back the threatening tears, he buried his nose in her hair and wished more than anything that it didn't have to be like this. That they were instead back at headquarters ensconced under the warm covers of the bed rather than clinging to each other in this dank, ugly room with puddles of bloody water at their feet and her struggling breaths in his ear.

In the corner of his vision there was a movement at the doorway.

"Joe." Malarkey's head popped into the room. "We need to go."

Jesus, he had fucking forgotten all about them and the goddamn plan. As soon as he laid eyes on her he had discarded _everything_.

"Okay," he answered quietly, taking a breath and nodding. Gently grasping her shoulders, he drew her away until he could see her face again to ask her if she could walk.

Fresh blood flecked her chin. She was coughing it up, for fuck's sake. He changed his mind.

"We have to get you out of here," he told her intently. Vague comprehension flickered across her dazed expression. "There are more guys outside who came with me." He thought of her last meeting with Easy. "It's different this time – you don't have to be afraid. You've met Don, remember?"

An almost imperceptible nod.

"He's right by the door. I'm going to stay with you. We aren't going to let anything happen to you. Understand?"

Another nod. Urgency leaked into his veins as he realized how on the edge she was.

"This place hasn't been liberated yet. We are going to try to make it back to the line without being seen so I'm not going to be able to do much until we get somewhere safer and have our medic check you. Do you need anything before we go?"

"Do y-y…" Her face crumpled in distress again and she swallowed, her words barely audible. "…W-water?'

"Shit – of course," he replied, instantly feeling stupid for not offering that already. He released her to tug his canteen out of his belt and she immediately floundered uncertainly, fighting and losing the battle to stay upright. He caught her just before she buckled again and wrapped his arm around her back. The dampness of her sweater saturated his sleeve and she rested once more against his collar bone. Awkwardly unscrewing the metal canister behind her far shoulder, he held the rim up to her lips. She drank deeply, her head gently guided by his hand to tilt back.

"Joe." Malarkey's voice reached him again, sounding more urgent.

"We're coming right now," he answered in English as he pulled the canteen away to put the lid back on and return to his belt.

Caroline looked up at him expectantly from the folds of his jacket, her pupils still narrowing and expanding as she tried to focus. She still didn't seem to be upset with him, but with growing dismay he realized he didn't know how much of the circumstances she was actually understanding. "Ready?" he whispered down to her. She gave him another weak incline of her head and turned to bury her face into him, her fingertips curling between the buttons going down the front of his chest to hold on.

It was some measure of relief. She didn't seem to mind touching him.

He reached for his rifle and hung it on his shoulder before maneuvering his arm under her knees. As he rose to his feet she stiffened, pushing her face harder into his torso, but didn't make another sound.

Malarkey hovered in the doorway, watching them. "She okay?" he asked as Joe approached.

Joe looked down at the tense form in his arms. Her eyes were screwed tightly closed. "I don't know."

The sergeant watched her for a second longer. "I'm glad we found her," he finally said. "She'll be alright, Joe. Just keep your head clear. You ready to go back?"

Joe opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative when a hoarse shout from the outside suddenly resonated down the hallway. They jerked around simultaneously, looking out of the room. Joe automatically turned Caroline away, blocking her with his body, and searched the darkness at the other end for what the hell caused that noise. Malarkey moved forward, his rifle raised again. The team waiting in the hallway mimicked his motion, moving towards the slight commotion outside the door and Joe trailed behind, holding her closely.

In the dimness he saw a figure on the grass with two others on top of it. The tussle grew more forceful as the two struggled to hold the third on the ground while he was attempting to throw them off. As Joe got closer he recognized Perconte and Ramirez and saw that the man below them was wearing a German uniform. The soldier flailed against them desperately, fingers reaching for a rifle fallen too far out of his reach. Marlarkey shot forward and kicked it even further away, pointing his weapon at the man's head. Perconte held his hand over the Nazi's mouth and Ramirez was trying to get his knife out while keeping the man from throwing punches as he realized he was never going to reach his gun.

Joe hung back to crouch in the shadows of the outer doorway, keeping her away from the fight in case it got out of hand. He knew was a ludicrous worry given how outnumbered the Nazi was, but still felt relieved regardless when Popeye appeared above the struggle, his bayonet poised. When it came down the man gave a sharp scream that was muffled by Perconte before he flopped one last time and fell still.

If Caroline heard anything she didn't react.

"Put him in the room with the others," Malarkey ordered softly as Ramirez and Perco rose from the body, breathing heavily, "and close the doors after you're done." The two members of Easy grabbed the German by his equipment suspenders and began dragging him past Joe and into the building.

"Has she said anything about how many men are here?" Malarkey asked as he crept back towards Joe once more. The camp was still dark and calm, their presence still apparently unseen. Everyone watched restlessly from their semi-hidden positions around the building, ready to get the fuck away from this place.

Joe shook his head. "Caroline?" he called faintly in her ear. "Can you hear me?"

The one eye he could see cracked open.

"Do you know how many German soldiers are here?"

The eye blinked rapidly and she swallowed. "T-two," she mumbled into his jacket. "What… I saw. K-killed one."

"She says she saw two. She killed one back in the room and I'm guessing Perco and Ramirez have the other," he told Malarkey.

"She killed those guys in there?" the sergeant whispered back.

He heard some disbelieving mumbling coming from the guys around him and let out a quiet huff. The last thing he wanted right now was to start some fucking gossip circle about her or what the fuck had happened to her. All that agony would be coming inexorably later if they could get back to the goddamn American side.

He shifted her in his arms. Her eyes were tightly closed again, her knuckles white on his jacket. It was clear she was in pain. Perco and Ramirez were shutting the inner door, sealing away the massacre. "I'm ready to go, Sarge."

"Right." Malarkey got the message and started back towards the tree line, tapping the guys' shoulders as he went to signal the fall back. Joe steered into the middle of the group as they crossed the open area between the buildings and woods. He could feel her hot, sharp breaths hitting his chest through the jacket and his t-shirt as he ran, but she was still utterly silent and they disappeared back into the trees, leaving the camp and the remnants of her persecutors behind.

The civilian was still there when they rejoined the firing line, bound and gagged and laying on his side behind McClung. As Joe came through the brush his eyes landed on Caroline and grew wide. He uttered something incomprehensible behind the handkerchief stuffed in his mouth and pulled against the bindings.

Joe sent him an ugly glare and moved so that the sight of Caroline was hidden by Webster crouching in front of him. He didn't trust fucking anybody who wasn't wearing an American uniform at this point. "What the fuck are we going to do with him?"

"I say leave him," McClung volunteered, turning away from his surveillance of the camp to prod the man with the toe of his boot.

"What, and let him tell everyone where we went?" Perco argued in a low voice. "The dame says she saw two soldiers but that don't mean that there ain't more somewhere in there."

"So you wanna slit his throat?" Garcia asked incredulously from the other side of Joe.

Perco shrugged. "We gotta do what we gotta do. Ain't nobody gonna miss some Kraut."

"But he hasn't done anything," Webster predictably disagreed, looking indignant. "He told us where she was. And they shot him too."

As if he knew what they were talking about the man tried to say something else, sounding desperate. Joe looked over for the sergeants in charge. Malarkey and Grant were huddled a ways away, whispering probably about the same thing.

Ramirez nodded towards Caroline and Webster moved so everyone could see her again. "She know who he is? Maybe she can tell us if he will talk."

"She's got other things to worry about than that asshole," Joe said sharply, annoyed.

"Then you ask him. You or Webster," Perco shot back.

"Ask him what? If he wants to be executed? I think I can guess what his answer will be."

Malarkey rejoined them, stuffing a map back into his jacket. "Webster, find out what this guy's situation is." He pointed at the prisoner. "We need to determine if he's coming back with us or not."

Webster tightened his lips but nodded. Everyone turned towards the German and McClung reached over to yank out the handkerchief.

"Please don't kill me!" the man immediately blurted and they cringed with the sudden loudness.

"Keep your voice down," Joe hissed at him. Against him Caroline stirred, perhaps roused again by the sound of her language.

"What is your name?" Webster asked.

"Gunter Vandstrom," he replied more softly, his voice wavering. "I-I was a doctor in the village. _Please_ , don't kill me."

"Why are you here? What were you doing in that building?"

"We – my – my family is staying here. We fled the village. There were supposed to be trucks coming to get us – it was part of the deal. But – but Mueller's men grabbed me out of my bed and dragged me into that room with her." He nodded towards Caroline. When Joe looked down he saw that she was forcing her eyes open. His shirt wrinkled under the sudden tightness of her hand.

"They tied me up and – and told her to shoot me. _Shoot me!"_

Webster shot a look towards him and Caroline. "Why?"

"I don't know. I don't _fucking_ know. Because he lost his mind. There is no truck. We aren't getting out of here. His promises meant _nothing_." The man shot a look back towards where the building was hidden, hatred plain on his face.

Joe watched him, watched his features dissolve back into a pleading expression, and frowned. Something didn't sit right. Something was off.

Webster started to ask the next question, but Joe beat him to it. "What was this deal? What was the promise?"

The man blinked. "What?"

Joe's frown grew deeper. "What were the terms of the deal you had with Mueller? What did you do to be promised an evacuation?"

Vandstrom's mouth hung open for second. "I-i-it was an agreement. I was to… provide medical care to his… Fraulein Alsbach… while she stayed in the village."

A lie. Joe could tell as soon as the words started coming out. _A deal_. The phrase nestled deep in his conscious, remaining unsettled with the implication that this bastard was one way or another involved in the scheme Mueller had going.

The man looked at Joe, his eyes shining with desperation and determination, and a blade of black ice struck through Joe's chest. Another fucking liar. "I'm going to ask you one more time –"

"Joe," Caroline sighed and he jerked his head down to look at her. She was turning her head to look at the prisoner.

The doctor noticed this and he fought against his bindings once more, his face going slack with panic. "I did! I swear! Henrich dislocated her jaw and I put it back into place just yesterday! I helped her!"

An involuntary jerk went through his muscles at the mention of that son of a bitch. _Dislocated jaw_. "What did this guy do, Caroline?" he asked, his tone dark.

"She isn't coherent!" the doctor interrupted, his gaze fixed on her form. "She has a fever and probably pneumonia as well. She doesn't know what she is saying!"

He didn't want her talking. The bastard _was_ part of it. He must have done something goddamn awful to her too if he was this worried about what she was going to tell Joe. Joe started to carefully untangle her from his arms.

"What's going on?" Malarkey asked.

"He's one of them," Joe growled in English, taking his rifle off and laying it next to her on the ground. She looked up at him, her appearance haggard and resigned.

Webster shifted nervously. "She hasn't actually said anything, Liebgott."

"Because he's trying to shut her up! If he were innocent he wouldn't give a damn about what she has to say," he argued back.

"So are we taking care of him?" Perco asked.

Joe held his cold stare on the trembling doctor as he stood. "One way or another."

The Nazi gulped, comprehending Joe's intentions even if he didn't know the words. " _Please!_ They tried to kill me too! I didn't know what was going on!"

"Now hold on," Malarkey held up a hand and Joe clenched his fists, not looking away from his target. "Joe. Actually ask her who he is."

He took a forced breath. "You," he pointed at the doctor, "do not say another fucking word. Am I clear?"

Tears were falling, streaking across the bridge of the man's nose to drop onto the ground. He nodded.

Joe licked his lips, stalling the growing ball of tension in his stomach. When he squatted back down towards her she was watching him quietly, her blonde hair pooled on the dewy grass around her. "Who is he, sweetheart?"

The term of endearment must have put the pieces together for the doctor, who let out a whine of terror at the sudden prospect that this wasn't just any mission and that Joe's involvement wasn't just coincidental. And what that implied for how Joe was going to react when the truth came out.

There was a beat of silence as they watched her, and she struggled to form the words that would determine the man's fate.

"I… h-he…" she tried to move on the grass and her words were cut off by a sharp inhale, her face scrunching in pain.

He was on his knees instantly, brushing a soothing hand across her forehead and wiping at a trickle of blood that started from her nose. "Shit, it's alright. Don't try to talk." He turned in the direction of Malarkey. "Can we get Roe over here to give her something?"

The sergeant's mouth thinned. "We'll have him give her a look over when we are farther away. We need to get going."

Joe grit his teeth and looked back towards her, slipping his fingers into the clammy hand resting at her side. "Just squeeze my hand. Once for yes, twice for no. Okay?"

Her trembling fingers closed around his once.

"Did he hurt you?"

Two squeezes and he sent an irritated scowl at the doctor. What the fuck did he do then?

"Did he work with Mueller?"

One squeeze.

"Henrich?" The tautness in his gut tightened.

Her eyes were closed again. Two squeezes.

"Schueller?"

One more.

So the asshole worked with Mueller and Schueller in the village. He tried to remember what she had told him about her life there and how the doctor could have fit in. She was poor with almost no food. Greta was her only companion…the isolation, caused by the rumors Schueller spread.

"Did he and Schueller work together somehow? To control you?"

One.

"How? Surveillance?"

One.

A sobbing cry came from the Nazi. "I didn't –"

"Shut up," Joe barked at him, "or I'm going to stuff that fucking handkerchief down your throat."

Caroline moved again, her eyes opening back up and her fingers gripping around his. She stared straight up, not looking at either of them. "He," she wheezed, "h-hated me."

Joe leaned closer. "Hated you? How?"

She blinked slowly. "Told e-everyo-one I was a tr-traitor. Kept me hidden from the out…side. Whe-n I… sick…wouldn't h-help. H-ad to use…Greta."

In the background he could faintly hear Webster translating for Malarkey. "I thought Schueller was the fucking one who convinced everyone to hate you."

Her head rolled from side to side in the grass, the blood from her nose spilling down both cheeks. "Me t-too…found out…"

He sucked in a breath of air between his teeth. Schueller terrorized her. Vandstrom isolated her from everyone else and made sure no one knew where she was. Both of them drove her into the arms of Greta, who reported every word to Mueller. He remembered her face on the hillside after he told her his theory about the old woman – her look of heartbreak as she realized how the one person she trusted was a spy like everyone else. That the risk of friendship she had taken earned her nothing more than another pair of eyes for Mueller.

He saw the loneliness nearly defeat her at that moment. He saw every one of those days of silence and scorn the village threw her way stack against her, an undefeatable opponent for her sanity and her will to keep going. Until now it was the closest he had seen her to breaking. It was the instant he knew he had to get her out of there.

If only he had known how much worse he was going to make it.

"What is she talking about, Joe?" Malarkey inquired.

Joe jerked his head up, breaking his intense stare from her face. "She was being held in the village as a punishment for helping Jews. This asshole," he motioned towards the gray-looking Nazi, "worked with the dead officer back at the camp to…to…to… _shit."_

He couldn't put it into words. The whole mess she had been through – it was so horrendous and complicated he found himself struggling, looking back to her. She still kept her eyes fixed to the sky. They shimmered with tears.

"I think," Webster said hesitantly, "the man was an operative who ensured she stayed in the village and kept her isolated from anyone who might help her, except someone named Greta."

Joe nodded, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek and roughly rubbing his face. Goddammit.

"Who the hell is Greta?" Malarkey asked.

"The old lady we left locked in that basement," Sisk supplied. "A neighbor. Also worked for that dead Nazi fuck back there and the blonde guy Joe tore up."

Malarkey pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright. Well. Can this guy give us any information?"

Joe turned back to the quivering civilian. His dark eyes locked with the man's and he didn't blink. "I doubt it. I think he didn't do anything but harass her in return for a promise of a ride to Berlin if the war turned bad. Mueller tried to use him as target practice, so I don't think he was very fucking important. Certainly not worth hauling back to the line."

"Good. Deal with him. We have to get the hell out of here. We are way behind schedule."

Joe was already on his feet once more by the time Malarkey turned around to head back to Grant. The Nazi jerked and tried to roll onto his back, alarmed at the look twisting Joe's face. "I-it was just a deal to protect my family. I never harmed her! I didn't do any of the shit the others did! I fixed her jaw! Please understand…I won't say a word. Just leave me here. I promise I won't do anything. _Don't kill me_."

Grabbing his shirt, Joe yanked to man up off the ground. Vandstrom was hyperventilating with terror, his eyes wide and looking frenziedly for an escape. Joe let the moment drag, waiting as the drawn out panic grew and grew until he was sure the doctor was going to pass out from fear alone. It was true than his crimes were a pittance compared to what everyone else had done to Caroline, but he still deserved what Joe was going to deal out.

"You should have left her alone," Joe told him, pulling him closer.

"My children –" Vandstrom panted, looking like he was going to heave.

"Come on, Joe. Don't kill him," Webster called in English, following Joe to stand beside him. "He doesn't deserve it."

"Jesus, Webb," Perco muttered over to them, watching them as he shoved a stick of gum in his mouth. "Let the man do his work."

Webb shook his head. "This isn't right."

The sound of Webster's voice only made him angrier. Of course Webster would interfere, _again_.

"Is that for you to decide?" Joe snarled irately, still focusing on the heaving man hanging from his fist.

Webster didn't take the warning to move away. No, instead he reached out and laid a hand on Joe's shoulder. He touched Joe, as if they were fucking buddies or something.

Joe was going to do something regrettable to both men and clenched his jaw hard.

"Is it for you?" Webster questioned, still bravely keeping his hand on Joe. "How high is the body count going to get until you think she has been sufficiently avenged?"

"It depends on how many more assholes I find who were involved," His voice was low and flat, his intentions clearly coming through. "And I thought we already settled how I consider _your_ opinions."

Webster sighed. "And killing Eichelsdorfer didn't help anything, did it? You were still stomping around like you had a larger-than-usual chip on your shoulder. Then you damn near dismantled that other guy, but we can all still see that you haven't relaxed until we got here and you found her. So don't try to tell us that what you are planning to do to him as well will make this situation any better."

Joe spared the German a few moments of his glare by ripping his eyes to the fucker who had the gall to question his motives. "Gee, Web, defending a Kraut again? Want to argue that he is probably innocent too? Fine. Go tell Caroline that everything she has been through doesn't mean shit because you've got some soft spot for Nazis. She might be able to hear you, but I can't make promises. They did beat the hell out of her, after all. But explain to her that it might just be one big _misunderstanding_. Get your fucking hand off me."

Webster dropped his hand, but still didn't move away. "That's not what I'm fucking saying, Joe, and you know it. I'm just suggesting that you not murder this one fucking guy because he had some peripheral role in her situation. He wasn't responsible for her injuries. And I would bet she is as tired of the bloodshed as I am."

Joe was only halfway listening, staring at Webster and picturing how wonderful it would be to break his nose. Sure, just a few hours ago he may have been regretting the sort of person this place turned him into. Sure, now that Caroline was with him again the bloody knot of angst in his chest may have loosened for the first time since Kaufering. Even now he could feel Caroline's presence behind him, weighing heavily on his every thought and movement. But Webster didn't know these things. He was just making fucking lucky guesses and Joe sure as shit wasn't going enlighten him.

But to try to presume what Caroline wanted here? To assume that he, an asshole who had known her all of five minutes, knew what Caroline thought and felt? Webster didn't know a fucking thing about her. He hadn't read her ugly history like Joe did. He hadn't been in that house, watching her try to help an ungrateful American despite her miserable circumstances. He hadn't been on that hillside, pleading for her to come back and watching her sob with heartbreak. He wasn't there to run with her through the woods, chased by the man who raped her. He hadn't watched her be dragged back into the schoolhouse, too heedless to do anything –

Joe released Vandstrom to let him fall back to the ground with a hard thud and rounded on the other Easy soldier. "What the fuck would you know about it, Web? You don't fucking speak for her, got it? You don't know what the _fuck_ you are talking about."

Webster stiffened as Joe stepped up to him. "Joe –"

"What the fuck is the hold up over here?" Malarkey hissed, appearing once more from the brush. He looked at the still untouched doctor then to Web and Joe standing nose to nose. "For Christ's sake, this is not the time –"

The world exploded in white.

Joe pitched forward into Web, the air leaving his lungs and his vision suddenly failing. As he felt Web catch him he recoiled with a feeling like someone had landed a baseball bat across his shoulder blades. He hissed in pain just as the sound of a rifle discharging echoed from the camp.

Webster yanked him down as everyone instantly dove to the ground. When he landed face first in the dirt his nerves first registered the warm wetness that he was so depressingly acquainted with, followed right behind by a searing pain ricocheting through his back. He forced air back in through his nose, sucking in the earthy smell of the damp soil.

He had been fucking _shot_.

His fingertips dug into the ground, dirt collecting under his fingernails. He blinked, trying to bring his eyes back into focus and push through the shock of the quickly mounting agony. He forced the muscles of his torso to move to expand his lungs against the sudden pressure that seemed to sit on him as he lay there and threatened to shatter his bones. With every breath it seemed as though a knife was twisting deeper and deeper, going through his right shoulder and into his chest.

 _"Shit!"_ Malark cursed next to him, grabbing at him. "Joe! Stay with me. Where are you hit?"

He pressed his face harder into the ground, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to remember the mechanism to speak.

"The corner of the left building!" He heard McClung bellow somewhere behind him and seconds later the air filled with the sound of Easy returning fire.

Malarkey called his name again and tried to roll him on his back. The motion tugged on the same shoulder that the warmth was quickly spreading across and he let out a smothered yell of pain through his teeth. The sergeant instantly stopped and there was a shout for Roe. Settling back on his stomach once more, the fiery throbbing ebbed just slightly as he kept still. As a space cleared in his mind just wide enough for a thought about something other than the fucking bullet that punched through him, he finally garbled out some words. "It's fine. Go to the line."

He didn't need fussing over when whoever was fucking shooting at them was still out there. That had been the fucking standard procedure since day one. They would drag him out of here eventually, but the enemy always took precedence.

Malark didn't question it either. "Roe's coming for you, buddy. Just sit tight." With a squeeze of Joe's bicep he moved away, shouting at the firing line. "It's the fucking civilians! Shoot anything that fucking moves!"

"They are coming out of the building at two o'clock! Shift the machine gun left!" Grant echoed further down.

The enemy fire was intensifying, honing in on their position. Joe opened his eyes and blinked again, watching the shapes in the night slowly come back into focus. With a dull thwack a round buried itself in the ground a few feet from him, sending a tuft of dirt flying into the darkness.

 _Caroline._

In the flashes of light he saw her on the other side of clearing. Her head was turned towards him, her skin even paler than he remembered a few minutes ago. Her eyes were huge and wet on her thin face and her mouth was parted with breathless wheezes that made her chest rapidly sling up and down. One arm was stretched towards him, the wet tattered sleeve sticking to the grass and the carving standing out on her bony forearm.

He battled the torturous ache, trying to get his body to move over to her. His left arm cooperated and drew underneath him, but as soon as he tried his right his vision edged with threatening darkness and the pain the emulated from that side in that moment overwhelmed even his desire to get to her. He froze, feeling the world shift unsteadily around him.

The wetness was sinking down his shirt towards his pants and vomit tore at his throat. _God-fucking-dammit._

Above her a round zipped into the trunk of a tree, spraying splinters of bark down onto her head. She shrank away, trying to roll on her side to escape, but then her face contorted in pain and she flopped on her back helplessly as second bullet shook the tree again.

"Caroline." His voice didn't carry past the noise of the fight but she was looking towards him again, her hand clawing at the ground to try to pull herself in his direction.

Their eyes met and hers grew with horror at the sight of him bloody and motionless. He panted, feeling the hurt stretch across his nerve endings.

But then, as she stretched for him, a knowing, reassuring voice sounded clearly through the turmoil inside his head.

Every sweaty run up Currahee, Sobel screaming at him the whole way. Every footstep on the march across Georgia, the blisters on his feet popping inside his boots. Every time he stood at the plane door, waiting to jump into the midst of thousands of Germans wanting to kill him. Everything always ended in the same command shouting from his thoughts:

 _Fucking move._

He didn't stop the noise that burst from him as he dragged his right arm to bend in front of him. A dark stain was creeping down his sleeve towards his elbow and when his left hand brushed against his chest to join his right it came away smeared red. Digging his elbows into the earth, he drew up his knees to kick out his feet and push himself forwards.

His boots found traction and he slid towards her, bringing his arms back under his chest. With another excruciatingly loud protest from every cell in his back and shoulder he drew his elbows out ahead of him to pull once more, inching closer to her in some form of an army crawl.

Burying down another sound of pain rising in his throat, he did it again. It felt like his right shoulder blade was going to rip right out of his skin with every drag of his elbow and the blood was creeping around his neck to drip to his collarbone. The muscles in his limbs and back began to spasm with shock and sweat from his forehead ran into his eyes. Another round whizzed by just above her, hitting some leafy plant at her feet. _Jesus Christ_. He shoved the pain down, breathing hard through his nose as he tried to focus on reaching her. For a brief moment his concentration worked and his mind went thankfully blank as he hauled himself forward once more. He felt the hard ice grip him, pushing him onward. _Fucking move._

Then he saw her try to roll again, pulling herself towards the ammunition flying invisibly through the air to close the distance between them, and the ice promptly shattered with pure terror. He gasped, feeling the pain nearly overwhelm him again, and shouted over to her. "Stay down! Stay still!"

She fell back again, tears freely streaking down her temples as she watched him heave himself closer. Her hand stayed between them, open and pleading for him. The smell of hot brass was filling the clearing and Malarkey shouted something about grenades over the racket. More bullets buried into the ground around them, showering down and missing both of them by pure chance. But he knew the odds were going to run out eventually. They always do in war.

Her hand was just in front of him and he reached for it. Their fingertips brushed just as a round skipped through the grass for them. Without slowing it gouged its way across her palm before disappearing into the darkness as he watched helplessly. She jerked, her body jumping with the sudden burn and she let out a cry as the motion jostled the injuries in her torso. He saw a thick red line spurt across her skin before she drew away, grabbing her chest as more tears escaped. Before he could even breathe another came for her, skimming so close to her head that he swore her hair fluttered as it went by.

"Son of a _bitch!"_ he yelled, throwing himself over the last few feet to get to her. The exertion made his vision spin and he clumsily reached for her, trying to right himself. He felt her cold hand latch onto his wrist just as he steadied himself once more, combatting against the searing sensation trying to throw him into oblivion. He gripped her arm back, wishing with every bit of his being that he could drag her to safety. But as the tide of blood soaking through his jacket oozed across his chest his grip went slack, the last of his strength draining out of his body with every beat of his heart.

So he did what he could. With his numbing, shivering hand he pulled off his helmet.

"J-Joe – " she tried, looking at once terrified and inconsolable. "Do-on't."

He didn't listen, setting his helmet next to her and threading his fingers into her hair to lift her head up. With a grimace he moved to slide the helmet onto her, his aching hand leaving a smear of red on the brim. It was too big and nearly went halfway down her face.

"Joe." She said his name again, her voice cracking with the same emotions he felt. Exhaustion. Resignation. With a sharp bang another bullet hit the tree above them, and when more debris fell onto them he pulled himself over her, settling his weight on his knees and his left elbow that he planted by her head. The bits of the tree smacked against his back, nearly making him buckle, but he managed to keep himself from crumpling onto her damaged body.

Looking down at her, he saw her lips pulled into a broken, shaking expression of anguish. Moving his left hand over, he gently tilted the lip of the helmet back until he could see her eyes once more.

"I'm sorry, Caroline," he murmured.

Her frown broke with a sob and she roughly shook her head back and forth. "N-no. You c-came." She swallowed and squeezed her eyes shut for a long second. When they snapped open her gaze was as clear as he remembered from those days in her house that felt so far away now.

"I love you."

He tried to answer, those same words on his tongue, but then something wet and back splatter on her cheek. Blood. His blood.

Oblivion finally came for him, opening up and swallowing him whole despite how hard he fought against it.

The last thing he saw were those blue eyes.

* * *

 **Hi guys!**

 **Do you know what I just realized? WFR has passed 200,000 words! Starting out I had no idea this was going to turn into a dang epic. Thanks for sticking with me!**

 **And holy cow! Over 200 reviews! I never expected this sort of response. You all are really great and I cannot express my appreciation for everyone that has taken the time to give me feedback. Everyone has been so welcoming and supportive that I would have never gotten this far without you.**

 **I can't believe it, but I forgot to respond to the reviews for the last chapter! I'm sorry that I can't really differentiate the guest accounts to respond individually, but thank you to each and every one of you!**

 **S - I am glad you enjoyed it so much! Don't worry, I will finish it!**


	41. Chapter 39

**Hi everyone! Here is a short chapter for Wednesday! I hope to get another one posted very soon.**

* * *

 _We had the photographs developed, Caroline. You weren't missing an earring._

* * *

I should be dead. I should have died so many times. I have been brought to the edge and back over and over and over. The unlikelihood that I should continue to exist mounts with each passing incident and every drop of blood spilled. And I have been ready. I was ready before I was cursed to that village and I was willing after I stabbed Joe directly in the heart with the sharpened knife of my past.

* * *

 _He had skin and blood under his fingernails. How did you get those scratches on your neck?_

* * *

It was just a reprieve. A week of bliss standing out from the churning darkness of everything else. Joe had done it. He had given me everything even when I didn't deserve it.

* * *

 _You can't stay silent forever. Maybe I should bring Henrich in here to convince you to talk?_

* * *

Everything. And I have nothing to share in return. Nothing but a broken body and a useless cry of terror as he collapses, blood smearing up his neck and soaking his uniform.

He came for me. I don't why and I don't understand how, but he followed me here. His face was the last thing I expected to see again. After everything that has happened and the depth of his hatred for me I am still not sure how we have come to be here together again. If not for the feel of his arms around me and the warm whisper of his words in my ear I would think once more that I was dead and none of this was real.

But where does this leave him? His effort has earned him nothing but a liability of a woman who can't even move, who can't even help herself or him when he needs it most. A woman who should have been lost a long time ago.

* * *

 _You want the pain to stop? Tell us what you know._

* * *

It's all my own doing. He shouldn't have come here. His sacrifice belongs to something much greater, much _better_ , than a silly girl mired in her own dubious morals. He saved a liar, a murderer and a Nazi. His life is draining into the ground around us and I only call his name over and over as if words could heal him. As if words can do anything but destroy.

* * *

 _You gave them a car? Which direction did they leave?_

* * *

"Joe," I croak again, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket with a weak fist. He doesn't answer, his eyes closed and the blood snaking up his neck to stain his hairline.

* * *

 _You are lucky you are so popular with the press. All the others who failed me are no longer living. You aren't going to get such an easy way out. You will suffer until I get what I want. Again, Henrich._

* * *

"Joe!" I try to shake him, but my vision just blurs for an awful second and the pain bounces sharply through every inch of my flesh. I can't move. I can't breathe. A weight sinks deeper into my chest, killing me agonizingly slowly. Hot tears drop on my freezing face. _"Joe!"_

There is no response and the panic ratchets higher and higher as his skin slowly grows grey. I try to peel his jacket back to look at the wound, my own blood soaking across my torn palm, but my hands are shaking, are feeble, and _I can't do anything_.

* * *

 _Tell us what happened or I will drag you right back to the camp. You don't want to go there, do you Caroline? You know what happens there. It's where we send people who are not good servants to the Mutterland. And the guards are thirsty for revenge._

* * *

My vision shimmers in an out, darkness leaking into the corners. Another scream rises above the chaos and the hazy figure of the village doctor slowly comes into focus at the far edge of the clearing. One of the Americans has him by the neck and is rearing back to punch him, the flash of brass knuckles catching the dim light. With one swing the doctor collapses against the grass, unconscious.

Another string of bullets kick up at patch of dirt along my side, close enough to scatter it across my face. My hand tangles in Joe's hair, trying to shield him.

I can't tell if he's breathing.

* * *

 _Who were they? How did they contact you? Why did you help them?_

* * *

I can't – he isn't – _Joe, please!_

Shadows fall over us. Yelling in English. The grounds shakes with a loud blast from within the camp. Joe's body is pulled from me, yanked from my grasp, and he disappears between the crowds of men frantically running back into the trees.

 _"Joe!"_ Where are they taking him? What is happening to him? He can't leave me now. I need –

Hands grab me too. The instant pain brings the blackness closer, bleeding into the widening holes in my thoughts. My throat burns with it, everything heaving and jerking until I'm afraid the darkness is going to entomb me forever. Trees are moving past and I distantly think I'm moving, but everything is lost in the searing, unforgiving torture of my own body as it fights for the last breaths I try to pull into my collapsing lungs.

* * *

 _Please stop!_

 _Anne. Daniel. Who else? Again, Henrich!_

* * *

I'm being held again. Branches of trees hit my feet as they dangle across his arm.

Joe. He's come back. He's here. He's alright.

"Stay calm," he tells me. "You are going to be fine."

His voice. That's not his voice. The accent is awkward, the tone different. _I need Joe._ Who is it? I can't see in the unending blackness. More English, coming from all sides. Americans. They are all Americans. Not them. Not Dr. Mueller. He's dead. _I killed him._

* * *

 _God - No! Stop!_

 _Tell us, Caroline!_

* * *

I'm drowning, surrounded by the blackness. My skin burns like it is on fire. The arms are gone. I'm floating. Floating and drowning and burning at once.

"Caroline?" That foreign voice says again, a distant call. I'm cracking apart inside, ripped in two by the pain and carved out by Joe's pale, bloody face. Dead. Is he dead? Am I? I need Joe. He can't be lost again. I can't move. Where I he?

Another voice. Another language. French? More words, incomprehensible and so far away. I just want Joe.

* * *

 _You really don't know where they are going? I don't believe you. Who else did you speak to?_

 _I don't know anything else, I promise!_

 _I will have Henrich break you, Caroline. Piece by piece. Start talking._

* * *

Hands touching the flames. Touching my skin. _Stop!_ Where am I?

More blackness. More French.

Joe! _I need Joe!_

"He's here, Caroline. Joe's here. We need you to stay calm so our medic can look at you." Where? Where is he? The sound of the voice is interrupted by a howl. My own. _Stop touching me!_ I need him. God, there isn't –

My arm is being pulled. My shoulder screams and I do too. The fire grows hotter, licking my very soul. A hand over my mouth. No – no – no – _please_ –

* * *

 _Enough, Henrich. Untie her._

 _D-Dr. Mueller –_

 _Stop crying. You murdered an SS officer. You helped Jews escape. This isn't even the start of what you deserve. I can even begin to explain how disappointed I am in you or how angry I am that you defied me after everything I have done for you. If it were anyone else you would be in front of a firing squad right now._

 _I-I-I'm sorr –_

 _Save it. Henrich, grab her and follow me._

* * *

"Sssh, Caroline. Joe is here," a voice softly says in my ear. I feel my fingers being placed in a cold hand. I have to see – let me see – My eyelids pull back into my skull but it's so fuzzy. So many moving shapes, so many people. The hand isn't moving. It isn't holding mine back. It's so cold.

Chestnut hair. Pale face. Joe.

His eyes are closed. His expression is slack. His uniform is torn open. Smears of black blood on his white chest. People frantically moving around him. So still.

Oh God, Joe. No – I have to get closer – _He needs me_. Pain buzzing across me and my body won't obey. The fire grows hotter. I'm sweating and shivering and I can't take this. Let me get closer to him. I'll die afterward, but just let me touch him –

The hand lifts from my face and my tongue is moving, but I don't think I am making words. I don't know what I'm saying – yelling – praying? No one is listening, anywhere. Salt stings my cheeks. Let be near him again. One last time.

More English around me. The man at Joe's side moves. Arms scooping me up again, lifting me away. No! Put me down! _I'm not leaving him!_

They do. They put me down right next to him. I see him. I see the ugly red hole in his chest, between his heart and his neck. Someone slaps a pad of cotton across it.

My Joe. My fault. What have I done to him?

My hand, bloody and shaking, touching his cheek. He blurs and shifts and the blackness comes once more like a wave passing overhead. There is tugging on my own clothes, bandages pressing against my skin that makes the agony hiss from my lips. The man above Joe speaks. That same voice in French now in English. Joe is turned on his side, his face moved next to mine. They are doing something to his back.

His long eyelashes don't flutter. There is nothing. He has to know how I –

A needle piercing my thigh. What are they doing? Joe's beautiful, quiet face.

"Caroline," the other man is in my ear again. I squeeze Joe's hand until I think my entire arm is going to splinter. "We are using the stretcher on Joe. We have to carry you. We've given you morphine – "

The drug floods my system, hitting me with a punch of grey fog. The fire hisses and goes out, becoming a cold and barren stone pulling me down into the depths and away from him. Joe blurs and doesn't come back. Don't let him die – don't take him from me. I'm sinking away… Jesus, _help him_ –

* * *

 _They are being punished. Punished for what you did. Everyone in the bunkhouse your Daniel dug his tunnel from will suffer because of you._

 _Line them up!_

 _This is all your fault. This is what happens when you do not listen. Watch! Watch what you have done. The kommandant will make them pay for you. There will be no mercy._

* * *

The fog isn't constant. In and out, it drifts and swirls. Men holding me, walking, passing me onto another in a bone-jarring handover that makes noise building in my chest until the fog comes back. Where is Joe? Is he alive?

A limp form, laying still between two soldiers and being hovered over by someone. White armband. Red cross. No one speaks. Silent footsteps through the forest. Joe…

And then the fog descends again. Numbness and cold.

Thinning, and the French is being softly spoken to me. Who is he? Why French? He should be taking care of Joe –

Gray isolation once more.

* * *

 _Where are they hiding?_

 _I-I told y –_

 _I don't believe you. You want this Anne girl to be spared when we find her? Talk!_

 _Doctor, I swear…_

 _We should just leave her here, shouldn't we Henrich? Shave her head and give her a bunk like the rest of the Judenschwein._

* * *

Watery, sucking breaths.

Mine.

The night sky drifting through the tree tops. The grayness growing deeper, darker, permanent. The pain. Joe. All of it. Why? Why should I fight? Joe. So cold and still.

Grayness becoming thicker. A sea, flowing around and over me. I'm plummeting into nothing. Joe. He's dead because of me too.

Choking. Dying. Whoever's holding me stopping. Grass tickling my neck. Just leave me here with the agony and the quiet. For the animals and the dirt. I don't deserve anything else.

A tarp unfolded over me. They've finally decided I'm not worth it. _I'm sorry Joe._

* * *

 _D-don't. Please. I've told you everything._

 _We've found the car. They wrecked it when we chased them. They ran back into the forest. How long to do you think it is going to be before we find them? The woods are only so big and we've got all the time in the world._

* * *

A bright light. Slipping past the line, towards it and away from this. The thread being cut.

The light moves. A blurry face... _French._

Another rattle of air. My chest shaking.

No, God, just end it. I'm not going to be with Joe so just _release me_.

He's dead. I feel it. So cold.

Coughing. Something wiping my mouth. Red gauze. Another blurry face. They wouldn't be paying attention to me if he were still alive. They know it's all my fault. Colors churning. The tarp crinkles above. They are under it with me. The air is becoming humid and heavy, clogging my throat. The light is so bright. Whispering in English to each other. Joe – are they leaving him behind too?

"Caroline." The blurs move. I can't focus. I can't blink. "Stay with us. Joe needs you to fight. Doc Roe is going to fix you, but you have to help him."

Joe is dead. He doesn't need anything. I'm to blame for it all. A low gurgle. Hands on my torso, fingers prodding. More pain and creeping nothingness. Another hand smoothing my dirty hair from my burning forehead. It is cool and almost comforting. Something my mother used to do.

I killed her. I killed Joe. I'm the cause of it all.

* * *

 _They scattered like cockroaches, but we nabbed this one. He wasn't as fast as the others. We'll find them all eventually, won't we, Caroline? Look at him, he's scared out of his mind._

 _Please don't hurt him._

 _Oh, I won't, my dear. Henrich, on the other hand… he's been wanting get his hands on them since we discovered them missing. He's quite prepared to show me his loyalty to our Fuhrer. Aren't you, Henrich?_

 _Yes, sir._

 _Show Caroline what you are capable of._

* * *

More murmurs descending into my failing hearing. The light goes out with a sharp _click_ and the night falls over me again, suffocating and black. The tarp is pulled away and the breeze rakes across my wet skin. Arms slip under me and as I'm lifted again the sudden fresh burst of pain comes out in a high whine echoing from somewhere deep in the broken pieces of my chest.

"We'll give you more morphine in a moment," the words whisper in my ears. "But you need to see him first."

Who? Joe? Dead and still and _cold_.

The knowledge settles deep, poisoning what's left my struggling thoughts. Why did he ever have to meet me? What did he ever do to be punished by having to meet _me?_

* * *

 _What did I tell you? They didn't have food. They didn't have anywhere to go. It only took us two days to track the rest of them down. It's a damn shame Henrich broke his hand dealing with the first one or we could have brought them in here to show you as well._

 _Wha – What d-did you do?_

 _There is only way to put down a disobedient Jew. Would you like to see the pictures?_

 _Caroline? Do you?_

 _I'm told Daniel tried to fight them off, to give Anne a chance. How_ romantic _. I'm getting choked up just thinking about two Jew rats trying to love each other. Aren't you, Henrich?_

 _I guess we have you to thank, Caroline. Without your help they would be halfway to Switzerland by now. I knew you would come around. It just took a little persuasion. But we aren't done yet. Oh, not at all._

* * *

My back settles back into the grass. A body brushing up against my arm. _His._ I can't do this –

A hand grabbing mine once more and placing it in those icy fingers.

 _Joe, I'm so sorry._

Rustling in the blackness. I can't see him, I can't even try to make the shadows take shape. He suddenly is pressed against my side, our forms touching from shoulder to foot. A ghost of a breath against my neck.

 _A breath._

I choke. My hand clamps down on his fingers.

"He's hanging in there," the voice says and that calming touch is on my forehead again. "And I'm pretty sure he can hear us. We need you both to stay alive. You'll get through this."

Eyes burning with the struggle to focus on the man lying next to me. His head is turned and in the moonlight his chest is shuddering. Another figure is next to him, holding an IV that is attached to his arm. A deep line creases between his eyebrows.

The effort peters out and everything blurs again. My mouth tastes of blood and grime.

"Joe," the man continues, "Caroline is here. Doc Roe is taking good care of her. We are almost there. Just hang on."

The muscles of my arm aching, but I don't let go of him. "J-Joe."

The noise is a wheeze and the force of it pushes through another wave of blackness. Ringing in my ears. Lungs won't refill. The slowing thump of a pulse in my head.

More English coming around us. Fingers on the inside of my wrist. A pinprick inside my elbow.

"That's it, Caroline. Doc says his heartbeat is steadying. He knows you are here. You are helping him. We are giving you some fluids to keep your blood pressure up and more morphine. Keep breathing. Don't leave him now."

Trying. Shattered ribs not moving. The heaviness in my chest growing and growing. Defeating. Suffocating.

* * *

 _Are you feeling better today, Caroline?_

 _You gave up the information easily, my dear, and that is the silver lining to this whole mess. It means there is still hope for you. So we are going to try something different._

 _You've been stressed, I know. This past year has been difficult for all of us. I'm not blind to what Henrich does to you and I am not so sure anymore that it is the right way to keep you in your place. After all, what has all this pain accomplished? You obviously still hold on to something that is leading you astray. So let's take a step back. Some time away from the spotlight. Henrich is about to go into SS training so he will be leaving us soon and it will be the perfect opportunity for you and me to work together._

 _We are returning to Berlin. I've used my contacts to find you a position at the Reichstag as an assistant on Himmler's staff. I will give you an apartment and you will be paid a wage. It will be an opportunity to screw your head on straight and give us some time to figure out what your priorities really are._

 _What do you say, Caroline?_

 _Caroline?_

 _…Let me see them._

 _See what?_

 _The pictures of Daniel and Anne._

* * *

His hand twitches in mine.

 _Joe._

A convulsion, air flooding into me. _Joe._

 _Stay alive._

* * *

 _I suggest you consider your decision again, Caroline. Now is not the time to act rashly. I'm giving you what you want. No Henrich. Freedom._

 _I don't want to._

 _Don't act like a child. Think about what you are doing and what you are throwing away. Serve your country and you will be rewarded. Don't and you will find out what the alternative is. I'm not inclined to offer this opportunity again. Have you learned nothing? You throw my kindness and forgiveness back into my face?_

 _I just want to-to be left alone._

 _Alone? You want to be left_ alone?

 _Just…just leave me alone._

 _To do what? Wallow in your self-pity? Plan new ways to disobey me? Why should I do that? Why should I "just leave you alone" instead of send you back through training? Instead of having you locked in a concentration camp? Instead of just having you executed?_

 _D-Don't do that. I just want time to think –_

 _There is no time. There is no thinking. I've told you all you need to know and your decision has already been made. I am telling you what it is. You will go back to Berlin –_

 _No._

 _Caroline –_

 _I'm not going to do it! You… I'll… You put me in the Reichstag and I-I will burn it down. You make me do propaganda again and I will tell anyone who will listen what is really going on. You make me marry Henrich and I will_ slit his throat _in his sleep –_

 _Enough!_

 _Everyone I've ever cared about is dead. What do I have left? I just want to be left alone for once!_

 _Goddammit, Caroline! You make me want to… Fine…. Maybe I've read this wrong… Maybe a good dose of isolation is just what you_ need _. You want to find out what life can be like without my money and my protection? I'll give you a good long time to consider what you want to leave behind. Is that what you want?_

 _…Yes._

 _Good. We will leave in the morning. Don't bother packing your bags. You want to be alone, my dear? I'll put you somewhere where no one will ever find you, where you will be so alone even Henrich's presence would be welcome. You'll come crawling back to me, begging me to take you back. Mark my words, Caroline. I'll leave you out there until you realize that my way is the only way._

 _Where?_

 _As far away as it takes._

* * *

The gray fog sweeping in again. This time it doesn't lift.


	42. Chapter 40

**So this chapter was going to be a short one like the last, but I got going and three weeks later I'm 9000 words in. But I love Joe's chapters, so I don't mind if you don't :)**

 **Thank you, guests, for the reviews!**

* * *

There was no reliving this time. No tally of his rights and wrongs. Instead he was toyed with, a puppet on strings being yanked around by some invisible force far greater than him.

One moment he would be there, on Earth, desperate and fighting the wound killing him. The next he would be…nowhere. Some state of total silence and nonexistence seeped in warning of the coming toll of death. He was swung back and forth, in one then the other with nauseating dizziness that made it hard to grasp what it meant and where he was going to be when the strings were finally cut.

In the emptiness, the infinite and terrible emptiness, he was at first afraid.

Nothing strung him together. Nothing made sense and the pieces of him scattered through the vast desolation only to rapidly pull back together again with a sharp snap of pain that brought him back to life somewhere in what he remembered was Germany.

Blankness, the feeling of weightlessness, the floating twisting that took him nowhere. Then being sucked backwards, into the sudden burst of sensation that had him screaming even though his body wouldn't let him move to open his mouth. He could smell the damp ground and his own soaking blood. He could hear talking – words – but they meant nothing. His limbs dead as stone. His torso pulsing and screeching in bursts of agony that robbed him of breath and made him wish for the numbing paralysis of the nothing again.

And it would come back for him. Suddenly he would be in the barren reaches of the limbo between what was, he knew, life and whatever came afterward. The pain was erased, replaced by an exhilarating and frightening state of feeling…what? He couldn't come up with how to describe the hows or whys of him – not his body, but _himself_ – reaching through the nothingness towards something he knew but at the same time didn't.

It wasn't his brain coming up with this. This was not the conscious _being_ like he knew. He felt his very soul rattling within him, trying to move and escape. It grabbed at his ribs like prison bars and tried to squeeze itself through, pulling him in some direction in this directionless place. There was no sound, no taste, no smells. He could feel himself drifting in all different ways, not whole but a sum of parts suspended in the cavernous gap of….of…. purgatory?

And then again the parts would fly back together, crashing into place and making him Joe once more. Joe, sweating and bleeding and seeing flashes of silhouettes of people he felt like he should know but couldn't place. He heard his name – knew they were talking to him – but the sudden return to a mortal body carried with it that crushing blow of hot pain grinding through what thoughts he managed to string together. He felt air pulling into his nose but it didn't seem enough. It never seemed enough, the pressure building and building until his sternum felt like it was knotting and breaking. He wanted to claw at his chest until he ripped it open and pulled out whatever it was so he could breathe again. But something was holding him down, something strung through his muscles and kept him limp and at mercy to the sinking torment and the climbing fear.

Then he was gone again, those emotions swept away from the slate as if they never existed at all. The rotating, living, empty blackness embraced him once more with familiar motionless and touchless welcoming. And he fell apart and into it, letting his nothingness relax into more nothingness until the blankness was in him and a part of him.

The elements of him plummeting and colliding and then he was back under those trees with the brutal and ugly reality sitting on him and breaking him. It hit at him again and again, growing heavier on his chest until he was sure there was nothing left for it to destroy and the void promised to irrevocably keep him on the next round.

A punch to his side, underneath his armpit, branded across the faltering haze like a final insult, searing across what he could understand was the last fingers of reality letting him go. He felt the beast leap off him, taking the devastating weight of a painful death with it, and as he breathed easy he felt himself shedding his skin for the freedom of existing in the incorporeal pulse of his final heartbeats. Sweet and liberating emptiness. As he dispersed across the stars that did not shine and the space that was not there he was not looking back. There was no back, no front, and no more _him_.

 _"J-Joe."_

He blinked even though he had no eyes. A shiver crossed the line of divergence between the being and not being and then she came into the abyss, cracking through it with words that warped and glued together until he could feel them filling what should have been empty of all people and all things. He was sinking into being nothing, only particles spread across the vastness of the blank state between the living and the dead, but the words emerged between the pieces, sticking to them and trapping them from following the steps guys like Skip and Hoobler already knew. It collected the hanging molecules left of him, gathering him together again and snapping them back into place like a puzzle of the remnants of what he used to be. They formed him again, breathed into him in this place of no air, and tugged him into a retreat from the yawning mouth of eternity.

The blackness slipped from him this time, slow and steadily. Pain spread through him again in yellow scorching tendrils carefully braiding from his hair to his feet that pulsed in a steady tattoo like the ticking of a clock. Cold air was entering and exiting his lungs, still shaky but the unrelenting pressure was gone. The chilling breeze bathed his face and voices slipped back into his ears.

"That's it, Caroline. Doc says his heartbeat is steadying. He knows you are here. You are helping him. We are giving you some fluids to keep your blood pressure up and more morphine. Keep breathing. Don't leave him now."

His hand, bloodless and cold, was squeezed tightly and the threads wove down to it, alighting the bones and tendons with hot feeling that made it tingle to life. Her. Alive and here. The feelings washed around him, growing and reaching with the will to find her. The need to see her, to connect with the one thing the blackness would never offer and made the pain of living bearable. A gasping, deadly sound fractured through the faint glimmers firing through his head and even though he still couldn't see he knew what it was. The _nothing_ was coming for her too, ready to trap her and whisk her away in little pieces he would never find again. Knowing the odds against them he had been aware that he was chasing a ghost to that camp, fueled by wishful thinking and slim hope that he would find her alive. But if she fell into the void now there would not even be the ephemeral flicker of her to someday look upon again no matter how much he wanted his luck to hold out one more time.

Her fingers loosened, shuddering and shaking against the calluses on his palm. She struggled, moaning and crying and splitting him even deeper than the path the bullet tore through his chest. He needed to do something – anything – to keep her here and yank her away from that attractive and peaceful blank space beckoning both of them. But he was still frozen, still a living corpse being poked and prodded and alive for the sake of it rather than because it was what he was meant to be.

 _Just move._ Do something to distract her, to keep her here instead of going _there._ His body was swirling around a drain, his energy falling grains of sand, and the will to even open his eyes teetered against the throbbing band of pain that glowed hotter and brighter the longer he stayed in this world instead of the next.

"She's fading too – Come on Caroline, stay with us. Stay with Joe."

His tried and failed to wrap around the combination of German and English spoken, the words and meanings meshing together until he couldn't tell anything other than the trembling, gagging form next to his. Her, dying. Her, falling into the consuming deep without him and alone.

"Another chest tube?"

"No, it isn't pressure, it's… _Merde –_ get me another bottle of plasma and any extra clothes the guys have. We need to get her warm. She's going into shock."

Now she was the one hanging off the edge of the cliff, the ground giving way underneath her grip like a crumbling house of cards and abandoning her like everything else in her short, tragic life. His hand in hers felt like a million miles from his body and the command to move it chugged across his nerves, gradually and sluggishly trying to cross the distance. He prayed his eyes to open, his mouth to move, his limbs to flex, but as she choked and sputtered he was still and helpless, the pain wrapping around him to bind him as effectively as a rope.

"Shit – Joe, if you can hear us we could use your help. Bring her back." English, frustrated and aggravated. The same feelings mirrored in him, doubling down on forcing his body to obey. _Goddamn fucking move_ , he told himself again and again as if the repetition could force any part of him to listen. _Move!_

There was a slight flicker of sputtering energy in the midst of the haunting blackness of his thin consciousness, brief and weak. He seized on to it, grasping at it with everything he could muster in the frustrating and chilling indifference of his unmoving appendages. Focusing on it, feeding into it, growing it into something that could battle against the looming spirit world, fueled by his last hopes and the last favor he was ever going to ask from God again.

"Her respiration is decreasing. Malark, lift her feet up above her heart. You got those coats, Perco? Web, try to talk to her."

"Can you hear me, Caroline? Don't give up now –"

A rasping, rattling gasp sounded louder than any of the other voices and the rushed movements around them. She wasn't holding him anymore, her fingers weakening and slipping away. Panic shoved into him, heaving itself into that spark and making it swell with a sudden burst containing the final fragments of his fight and his need for her. Erupting forth, it flooded through him in a terrific tide, splashing into the hollowness of his limbs and infusing him with one solitary purpose.

 _Move._ He sent the command one last time and felt it travel down the paths of his nerves and bones to strike his hand. His muscles contracted, quivering and burning, and his fingers brushed against hers in a feathery touch at odds with the engulfing desire to do something more to help her. She quaked, hitting against him in an awful contraction of pain that made her heave and then, through the faded sounds of the commotion revolving over them, he heard her suck in a great breath of air. Her nails dug into his palm as she grabbed him again, gulping down more air, and with a loud cough she suddenly went limp.

He tried to clutch her again, but the same ferocity pushing the explosion outward now pulled it back in, dissipating and dissolving it into the painful quiet. As the glow left him and the agony surged forward once more, gloating at his sudden unbearable exhaustion, he didn't even have the means to fight it long enough to see if she still lived. Fading and fading… he waited for the creature to come back onto his chest and crush him downward until he was six feet under. There were hands touching him once more, hands of angels or demons that he would meet soon enough when he was finally told how he was going to spend that time without end.

"Joe," they murmured in his ear, taunting him and taking him from her, "thank you."

Thanking him, as if he wasn't the whole reason she was here in the first place. He was going to Hell – he was sure of it – where they would remind him of her and her pain forever and ever. Where there was no escape and to reprieve from what he had done. Touching her wasn't a favor or a gift; it was a poor substitute for what he wished he could do, for what he realized he would never get the chance to ever do. And as the blackness rose up once more it was tinged with grey and he briefly wondered if it was colored by the ash of those burning before him in the pits waiting at the bottom of his descent.

"We are about to go through the line. The scouts say there aren't many soldiers ahead, but we are going to put you both to sleep to keep quiet. Relax and it will all be over soon, Lieb. You'll wake up and be right as rain."

 _Malarkey,_ his mind suddenly exclaimed, the thought emerging from the lowering mist. _They sound like Malarkey._

Before he could contemplate it further the gray-black fog surrounded him and it was unlike what he saw before. It was silent and blank like he dreaded, but he could feel it touching his skin in pricks of tingling as it hugged around him. He swam through it, floating like a dream, but he wasn't asleep. He couldn't be asleep. He had to be dying, no matter how much he wished to stay with her or wished to hold her again. There was nowhere to go in the cloud, nowhere to move. In the space of nothingness it still felt like _something_ was waiting, something huge and incomprehensible. But it wasn't here, not that he could tell. The weight on his shoulders was gone yet he felt heavier. Nowhere to go, nothing to be – it was all just more featureless emptiness that was somehow more crowded and full than what he expected.

Where was he? How long –

A jerk, the feeling of his body tightening and releasing. Acidic and medicinal-tinted air replaced the humid forest filling his nose. A familiar smell, a smell… when his neck...that shouldn't be here.

Was there any piece of him left or was it all wasted away into dust and memory? Answers didn't appear in the mist and he took a breath with the sudden lightness of his chest. Had he made it through? Was he on the other side, into the unknown?

 _"Joseph."_

The voice called over the dunes of this obscure netherworld, causing him to go still and whip his head around.

There wasn't anything to see. Nothing to tell him who said his name. But he knew. He knew that voice like he knew the back of his hand and his throat suddenly closed up with a flood of paralyzing disbelief. He knew it even almost fifteen years later and he fumbled, unable to answer the sudden memory arising out of the darkness. Was this death? Was this the sign that it was finally over?

 _"Joseph,"_ she whispered again, coming from no certain direction. She surrounded him with the scent of typewriter ink and perfume that burned in his nose with the memory of coins stacked on the table, of naps on the couch, and of a small boy, so lonely and afraid.

"G-God…" he heard himself stutter, looking into the mist and it glared back at him, teasing with the notion of what was a hallucination and what wasn't. He didn't plan on seeing her again. He knew she was there, but after everything that had happened he figured they would ultimately be specters passing in the dark, heading in opposite directions as he faced the price he always knew he would pay. She had left behind a child who took her loss as a reason to become cruel, who decided that the desertion and pain left in death's wake meant he owed the world nothing and behaved accordingly. Why should he be blessed with seeing her once more?

Other noises abruptly intruded, muffled and reverberating like they were coming from another realm, somewhere outside of where he was.

"- entry at the right shoulder blade and exit posterior to the collar bone. Upper lobe is punctured subsequent to pneumothorax that was addressed in the field via a thoracostomy – "

 _"Sweetheart…"_

Jesus, what the fuck was happening? He was lost, listening to the woman who left him so long ago that the very hint of her voice sent ice down his spine and wondering if she was going to appear before him like some sort of angel to list all the reasons he wasn't going to join her up in the clouds. The thought made him nauseous. He had failed Caroline. He had failed his mother. He was so painfully aware of what he had done that rubbing his nose in it now was the equivalent of God spitting on his grave.

"Please…" he entreated into the dark. "I'm sorry – I know –"

 _"Forgive."_

What? Forgive? Who? He tried to stretch out, reaching into the gray fog, but felt nothing.

 _"Forgive. Be at peace."_

"M-Mother – " he tried before stopping. He ached to see her, to hug her like he wanted when he realized she was gone forever. He wanted to tell her everything, spill out how ugly he felt and how he wasn't worthy of being her son. He wanted to plead with her to understand how foolish he was in how he treated Caroline and if he got another chance he would never hurt her again.

But wants and desires meant nothing here and he tread helplessly, ears straining to hear her again and only more half-syllables coming out of his mouth as he struggled to figure out what he could possibly say to her.

 _"They are waiting for you. Forgive, Joseph."_

 _Who?_ Caroline? Where was she? In Heaven? Back on earth? What the hell way should he go?

He wasn't moving and nothing appeared to give him a clue. He felt his consciousness rising, trying to jerk him out of this strange world, but the mist only grew thicker to battle it back down. Something shifted, a lighter patch in the flowing and muddled space around him growing smaller, and he felt warmth drawing from him to follow it. The aroma of ink and perfume began to fade.

"Wait!" he cried, trying to swim in the emptiness towards the gleaming glimpse of something beyond his comprehension.

 _"It's time, Joseph. I love you, always."_

His futile attempts to move petered out as he watched the darkness consume him again. He suddenly felt lightheaded, riding turbulent waves that he couldn't see. He toppled and spun, grasping for anything and getting nothing. He cried out, wanting to throw up, and out of the spinning clouds she called out to him one more time.

 _"Forgive."_

* * *

He tried to pry his eyes open.

He expected another fight, another round battling against the invisible inevitability shadowing his and Caroline's every move. But the fog surprised him. It looked at his gathering drive and turned away, withdrawing without a sound and moving from him as if it never tried to trap him in the first place. Before he could question it he found himself very alone, rising to the surface of something –

With sudden and startling ease his body cooperated, cracking his eyelids open. Blinding light scorched his retinas and his pupils contracted violently. He winced, groaning, and clapped then shut again.

Brightness.

Trying to look again, his eyelids cautiously peeling back.

Pale and bright light, surrounding him in a glow at odds with the darkness he remembered. Distant shapes, struggling to come into focus.

A ceiling. Cracked.

Wh-Where… Why was it so bright?

He blinked.

The crack was directly over him, cutting into the plaster.

Plaster. Ceiling.

Caroline.

 _Pain._

He felt it the same instant a voice called out to him. The lightning stabbed through him, reaching up from his navel to clog his throat. The voice was lost to the flashing colors and pounding cruelty of it and he felt himself try to move, to instinctively run as if the pain could be left behind. His right arm resisted, trapped to his chest by-by… he didn't fucking know. His legs shot out, tangled in… sheets?

A face emerged above him, oscillating blurry and sharp with the angry brunt of the torture coming from his traitorous body.

"Corporal!" it cried. Hands on his shoulders. It _hurt._

A woman. He could tell it was a woman. But…but not _her._ Not the one – Where was she?

"Calm down." Her hair was blonde. But not…not…her – where - "You are quite alright. Quite safe."

 _Quite._ English. British.

 _Fucking British._

Pain. Pain. Pain. Stabbing. Burning. Shattering.

 _Where the fuck was she?_

His body was pressed into the mattress underneath him. Fuck –

"Soldier! Listen to me! You need to calm down. Nothing is going to hurt – "

She needed to get her hands _the fuck_ off him. He tried to shove her away but only his left arm rose up, knocking against her hair. Something fell on him, bouncing off his face. A hat with a red cross. _Where the hell was Caroline?_

"G-et offuv m-m – " His teeth locked together, trapping what he was trying to shout. The fucking pain screamed with victory in his ears and dots of dark color clouded his vision. He weighed twice as much as whoever the fuck this was but – _why can't he get her off?_ His limbs thrashed but those hands were planted on him keeping him on – on –

 _Caroline. Caroline. Caroline!_

His legs were suddenly pinned and he tried to yell but only a garbled cry came out. His spine arched and the pain shot up, bright red. He had to find her. Mother was warning him. She was _waiting!_

Well – she was alive? Yes, yes, yes – Where –

"Get his arm! You have it? Be quick about it, before he pulls his IV out –"

He had to see her. What have they done with her? What are they doing to him?

 _Hell. Pain._

Oh God, was this what it was going to be like fore –

Darkness.

* * *

The crack growing, branching out in a thousand directions. Crossing the ceiling, coming for him. Opening up and he was falling down…

Voices around him. A hundred voices, talking in unison.

"He keeps calling out that name. There are a couple of men from his unit in D ward that we've asked – "

A chorus hovering above him, the voices calling out louder and louder, deafening in his ears. Mother didn't return. Caroline wasn't here. An empty cavity in his chest told him, a cold loneliness that he felt when they were gone from him. Caroline had been so badly hurt, so vulnerable. He had left her again and now he wandered through this strange state alone, not knowing what had happened to her. And it hurt so much. Everything – his body, his mind, his heart.

He never deserved her.

* * *

Brightness.

The ceiling. The crack. _Her._

He had to move. He had to get away from wherever this was and find her. He had to –

Can't… won't… _move_ , goddammit.

There was a-a buckle around his wrist. His feet were pressed deep into the mattress. They – they've tied him _down?_ Where was he? They were… could they… Nazis? He thought he yanked at the belt but his handle barely twitched. Was he a prisoner? If there were caught…Caroline.

He yanked again. And again. His hand was turning purple. _Got to find her._

"Hey, Liebgott! You've got to calm down or they ain't ever gonna let you go." Another voice, twirling and echoing in the snaking shadows in his head. Who – what –

His eyes weren't focusing, weren't looking past the bright buckle trapping him here. He pulled again, throwing his back into it.

 _Shi – awwww, God –_

Another explosion, shattering his mind into a million shards and shoving him back against the mattress. He gasped, stiffening and sweating, rolling with the punches defenselessly and helplessly.

"Now you've gone and done it. Look, you probably ripped your goddamn stitches. I told you – "

The _clap clap_ of heels on tile. "Is he awake again?

"Yes, ma'am."

They were touching him again. He wanted to fight and spit and curse at them for cornering him here. But he only heard his own wheezing as something pulled at his right shoulder. Why couldn't he move that arm?

Was she alive or dead? Was she here too, in this fucking place?

"Car-Car –" His tongue was slow and thick. It felt like his mouth was lined with sour felt.

"Caroline? Yes, I know, Corporal. She isn't here. Now if you will just stop fighting us we can bring you out of sedation. Do you understand? You have to relax or you will never get out of this bed."

 _Fuck that._ Who the fuck was she and what made her think she could control him? He had been on the goddamn front line since Normandy, was a Bastard of Bastogne, and had survived being fucking trapped behind enemy lines but she thought she could order him around? He had to find Caroline. She didn't even know who Caroline fucking was or what Caroline had done – she didn't understand and he wasn't going to be fucking condescended to by someone in some fucking… fucking… _hospital._

Yes. British. Medicine. Mattress. He was in a hospital bed, somewhere away from the battle. Alive.

And he was going to tell her the fuck off using all the goddamn curse words he had. He was going to get the hell out of here.

Right now… right after…

"Just relax. We've got to stitch you back up. Go back to sleep."

But he… had to… what, what was he going to say?

 _Caroline._

* * *

"Eh, who knew the kid had it 'em?"

"With a German, no less."

"You read Malark's letter 'bout what they found with them Jews, right?"

"Yeah. Those Nazi fuckers. Lieb probably shit a brick."

"'Spose that's what happened. When he found out about it he sent her back over the line."

"I'm surprised he didn't fucking kill her. The Lieb I knew would have."

"No shit. Fucking clocked me just for calling Sobel a son of Abraham that one time, remember?"

"Heh, yeah. And remember Holland? Bastigone, too. I heard Winters had to put him back on the line early because he wouldn't stop knocking around the POWs in the rear. Bastard hated Krauts more than anybody I knew."

"Damn right – so what do you think happened when he was stuck with her?"

"Ain't it obvious? He got some action."

"Not just that, you jackass. I mean about being fucking surrounded by Nazis with your buddies ain't there to cover your back. You know, Bull won't talk about the one night he was trapped in Nuenen – "

"You mean what bloodied him up?"

"Yeah – whatever shit went down was obviously fucked up, but he ain't saying nothing 'cept that he was glad the Germans pulled out right away. Now, Lieb was hiding a whole fucking week. Malark wrote that when they found him crossing the line with her they both were soaked with blood too. Lieb had to get a new fucking holder for his trench knife, for chrissakes, because his was so fucking drenched. He wasn't saying shit about what happened neither."

"Well, what the hell would you do? I'd gut every fucking Kraut I came across too if I was fucking alone in enemy territory. It ain't like Normandy, where everyone was scattered and the Germans didn't know which way was up or nothing. If she hadn't hidden him who knows what they would have fucking done with him if they caught him."

"All that's got to fuck with ya, don't you think?"

"Probably… I'm just glad it wasn't me."

"Me too. Jesus Chr–"

"Are you still up here, Sergeants?"

"– ist – uh… I mean, yes, we are, ma'am. "

"Hey, Evelyn."

"Hi Joe. Looks like he had an uneventful night, thank goodness. Has he been yelling in German still?"

"Not so far this morning."

"Excellent. He should be waking again soon, hopefully."

"Yeah…hopefully."

"Would you boys like some coffee?"

"I think we are fine right now, but uh, thank you."

"Very well. If he does wake up let us know."

"Of course. Thanks."

"…She gone?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Shit Joe, I coulda used some coffee. Just 'cause you have the hots for her doesn't mean you get to do the talking for the both of us."

"What should I do, try your method? I will when that stupid pickup line actually works."

"It's better than the approximate four words you mumble at her right now."

"Don't question my skills. For all you know they might be working. And how do you like that swill they call coffee? It's almost worse than the goddamn tea."

"If you want to knock boots with an English girl I'd think you better get to liking it. It's at least better than the colored water the PX is serving."

"Well then go get you some. Lieb don't need both of us."

"Eh, them stairs are killer. I'll get her on the next round if you don't trip over your own tongue first. Anyway, what was I sayin'?"

"Something about better him than you. Gotta light?"

"Yeah, here ya go – It's not like that, Joe. I just mean, if it _were_ me I would almost hope the Krauts would put me out outta my misery in the battle instead of the army leavin' me behind, ya know?"

"Even if you found some busty German broad to nurse you back to health too?"

"Well – Don't be an asshole, I know you got more in that pack – Now that's an interesting point. Just how busty we talkin'?"

"Rita Hayworth?"

"Roll in the hay after liberation? Definitely. While the Nazi's are hunting my ass? No thanks."

"Jane Russell?"

"Wearing that little outfit in… what was that movie?"

" _Outlaw?_ Sure, why not?"

"Okay, yeah, if I was hurt so bad that she had to lean over and put 'em right in my face – "

"Jesus Christ," he moaned. What the fuck – Who the fuck was doing all that blabbering? A throb like a chiseling icepick pulsed vindictively behind his eyes, making him want to rub his forehead, but he couldn't move.

One of the voices grew even louder. "Hey hey, our hero is up! Why don't ya open your eyes, Lieb, and tell us how much you've missed your old pals Gonorrhea and Toye."

The names sunk through the clearing filaments of mist. Why couldn't he fucking move? "Goddammit…"

"Ha, it's good to see ya too, buddy. You're sounding better already. I told ya, Joe, that if anybody could bring him around it was his best friends from Easy."

"Fuck you, Bill." He weakly replied, his brain kicking up the response out of habit. The words were dry and acrid and he swallowed. God, his head felt like it was going to split in two and roll away. What the hell were they doing here? Everything below his neck felt numb. Fucking Guarnere, always running his mouth like a goddamn walking Italian stereotype –

"Hah! The kid's already full of piss and vinegar again. He's gonna be fine. You hear me, Lieb? Just fine."

"How are you feeling?" The softer scratch of Toye's voice wasn't nearly so grating.

He croaked out the first thing that came to mind. "Like I fucking died and now have to spend eternity in Hell listening to fucking Gonorrhea." Where the hell was he?

"This place isn't quite Hell but you ain't too far off the mark, Bill notwithstanding."

"Well, ain't this a big fucking thank you from you both. You owe me an apology, Lieb. Do you know how long you kept Ol' Bill waiting? I got better things to do with my time than waiting for some skinny Brooklyn motherfucker to wake up from his beauty sleep."

He needed to move – get some fucking aspirin or something. But-but – what the goddamn fuck –

His eyes shot open.

The fucking crack. The… buckle… the… the…

 _Caroline._

 _"Shit!"_ He tried to shoot up, but didn't make it very far. A strap crossed his chest, disappearing under a bundle of white gauze that glued his right arm to his side. As he ricocheted back onto the mattress, grimacing, the entire bed creaked but the ties holding him down didn't give. "What the _fuck?"_

"Whoa – hey now, Lieb –" As he waited for the stars flashing behind his clenched eyelids to fade he heard the shuffle of feet and the creak of wood bearing weight. Breathing in short puffs through his nose, he clenched his jaw and looked up again.

Toye and Guarnere crowded in from both sides of the bed, looking down at him. The last time he saw them was Bastigone and the clean, sturdy men he saw now couldn't be any different that the gaunt, bleeding ghosts he remembered. Matching crutches dug into opposite armpits on both of them.

"You rip your fucking stitches again and they will knock you back out," Guarnere lectured from one side.

"They just tied you down until you came around and stopped fighting them. Relax, buddy," Toye did the same from the other.

His head continued to pound, but strangely he still didn't feel anything but a muted throb coming from the bandages around his chest.

"They got you on some pain killers," Toye explained, watching him look down at the offending strips of cloth. "You are gonna be hurting when they wear off, but let the nurses know and they will give you some more."

He sounded like he was speaking from experience and Joe let his head flop back on the pillow-less bed, trying to force the tension to drain out of him and taking stock of the situation. He was stripped down to his boxers under the sheet covering him. An IV was in his pinned left arm, leading to a bottle hanging next to him. The bandages wrapped around his arm, his torso, and climbed up to his shoulder.

"Whe –" The pounding got worse, clamoring against his skull and causing him to wince. "Where is she?"

"The German broad you've been screaming about since you got here?" Guarnere asked knowingly. "You sure put up a holler, I'll tell you that. In German too, you dumb shit."

"What w-was I saying?"

"Did that bullet knock you in the head too? Since when have I spoke fucking German?"

"No one knew," Toye cut in, far more helpfully. "But the other boys didn't take to kindly to it. Bill and I told 'em you were one of our paratroopers but you may get some shit when they move you back into the ward."

Guarnere took a deep drag on his cigarette. "That's why you got this private penthouse suite. You were going to start a riot down there. Some guys got messed up bad and hearin' some _auf wiedersehen_ in the middle of the night rubbed them the wrong way."

"Fucking great," Licking his peeling lips, he gave a feeble nod, too exhausted to give shit about anything else but... "Is she here too?"

 _Is she still alive?_ That was his actual question. But he was too much of a chickenshit to voice it.

Toye took a breath and crushed the butt of his smoke in an ashtray by the bed. "She's still over in Germany – "

"With _them?"_ His voice rose an octave. Did she get left behind? Was she abandoned in the fucking woods _again?!_ He started to push against the restraints once more and Guarnere placed a gentle hand on his uninjured shoulder, looking slightly worried.

"You mean the Nazis? No Lieb, she's with our side."

 _"_ Where?"

The two sergeants exchanged a look and Joe felt his heartbeat leap. What the fuck was going on?

"Malark's been trying to find out," Toye began cautiously. "He said that they got you across the line without any trouble, but as soon as she was stabilized at the field hospital Nixon assigned a couple of MPs to make sure nobody got near her. Nobody from Easy could even fucking get within twenty feet. Then she disappeared."

 _"What?"_ His heart hammered against his chest in all sorts of directions and his face went cold and ashen.

"Malark says that Nixon promised him that she was safe and still getting medical treatment, but that she was still known to be connected to the Nazi party –

"Not _willingly!_ She was fucking – Jesus Christ, _where is she?_ " His voice broke and the last words came out in an angry wheeze as he tightened up again. He had to call somebody – he had to punch Nixon's teeth down his goddamn throat –

"Imma go get a nurse before he breaks something," Guarnere murmured, hobbling backwards on his crutch.

"Don't fucking do that – just tell me where the hell they took her!" he rasped. Heat was building in his chest, centering on those bandages. "They've fucking _arrested_ her – "

"Malark is working on it, Lieb. And Nixon said she was being treated well. She ain't in prison. He called it 'administrative detention.' I'm sure she's fine. In fact, Nixon wanted to know when you woke up. He probably wants to explain everything in person."

The heat was growing, singeing the edges of his ribs. "Fine. Get me the fuck out of here and I will tell him myself! I'll be on the next transport out of the fucking replacement depot!" The threat was heavy in his voice and the other Easy guys exchanged another look. That was even more aggravating.

"What?" He snapped, glaring at them.

"Lieb," Guarnere spoke this time. "There ain't any more troop shipments. We won."

The heat collapsed backward, suddenly an icy stone heavy in his stomach.

"What?" he repeated. "What did you say?"

"The Nazis surrendered a few weeks ago. Hitler shot himself, the sorry piece of shit."

He didn't blink. "Surrendered?" _He was fucking alive and it was over?_

A slight smile creased Toye's pale face. "Yeah, Lieb. We fucking made it."

Joe looked at the crack again, going limp against the restraints. The room got very quiet.

"They surrendered?"

"Sure did."

"The war is over?"

"Japan is still in it, but it's over in Europe at least."

He breathing was steady in the silence as they watched him.

"Where is Easy?"

"Somewhere in Austria, I last heard. Staying at some fucking palace, those lazy bastards."

"How are they – Did we lose anyone else?"

Guarnere grunted. "Grant got it from some fucking drunk replacement."

"Are you fucking _kidding_ me? Who?"

"Dunno his name. The guys tuned the asshole up real good before handing him over. Grant's going to make it, though. They found some Kraut doctor to operate on him. He should be coming here any day now and you can give him a big ol' kiss with the rest of us."

" _Here._ Are we in England?"

"Yeah, just outside London, right Joe? Don't get excited – we don't get leave while we are 'regaining strength.' Can't even go to the fucking pub across the street. It's about to drive us fucking insane."

Toye shifted his weight on his crutch. "We ain't got too much longer though. As soon as they fit us with some prosthetics we are on the first ship home."

Their voices faded away to nothing again as he stared at the ceiling. The Nazis had lost. It was fucking _over._ Caroline was safe from them. So was he. Easy was out of the fight and out of harm's way. Jesus fucking Christ, they _surrendered –_

Surrendered. A few weeks ago.

 _A few weeks ago._

"What day is it?" he asked suddenly, swinging his eyes over to look back and forth between them.

Guarnere also put out his cigarette, his mouth thinning. "You had a bad wound, Lieb. It was touch and go for a while. You've been out a long time."

Joe lifted his chin. "Just fucking tell me. No bullshitting."

The sergeant nodded. "It's July 7th."

July 7th. That was… was… shit, _78 days_ from when he had set off from that airfield.

78… 78 _fucking_ days. She had been alone 78 days. She had been in whatever the fuck "administrative detention" was for 78 days. She had been… been… who fucking knows what for…

78 _goddamn fucking_ days.

When he spoke again his voice was surprisingly flat. His visible hand was clenched into a fist. "I need to get out of here."

They read his intentions easily. "Now Lieb, I'm sure she is being taken care of –"

"He's awake! I thought I told you to notify us, Sergeants." A blonde nurse he vaguely recognized appeared at the doorway, holding a clipboard. Toye shuffled out of the way as she approaching his bedside, her shoes snapping smartly on the tile and her hat perched perfectly square on her head.

"Sorry ma'm," Guarnere explained. "We just got to talking."

The nurse made a disapproving sound in her throat as her hand went his pulse. "We don't want the patient to become exhausted, do we? You've done your duty – he is lucid. You may return to your beds. I believe Nurse Goode is still making coffee rounds."

Who the hell was she? "Now wait a minute –"

She went to write something on the clipboard. "Hush, Corporal. We need you to save your strength. That was a nasty hole you've got in your chest that you've already torn open once."

"Trust me, I fucking _know_ that," he retorted, feeling his irritation rise again. "But I need to get out of this bed."

"You are doing no such thing, soldier." She moved to check his bandages." The doctor has ordered bed rest until further notice. You've got a few more weeks at least before you are ready for rehabilitation."

He pursed his lips together, trying not to let his growing annoyance show. "I don't have a few more weeks. I need to get back –"

"Haven't you told him?" The bitchy nurse rose an eyebrow at the frowning Easy duo watching the exchange before turning back to fiddle with the IV. "The war is over. There is no reason to go back."

"I'm not talking about that, goddammit. I need to get back to –"

"What you _need_ to do is rest –"

"I'm not fucking tired!" he finally barked, tugging hopelessly against the restraints with the notion to fucking plant her in the wall on his way out the door.

The nurse snapped her mouth shut, her hard stare turning into an outright glare. Then, silently, she turned to the table next to his head and fumbled with something he couldn't see.

"Aww, ma'm, you don't need to do that," Guarnere spoke up suddenly, furrowing his brow. "You see, he's just got this broad over there that he's worried about –"

"What the fuck is she doing?" He tried to lift up to see, but the strap on his chest pinned him against the mattress.

"This is for your own good, Corporal. We can't have you getting so worked up." She held up a syringe to his IV.

"You're fucking knocking me out _again?!_ Don't do that – Look, I'm sorry. Before I was shot I was helping this woman who… who… may…" Everything suddenly blurred.

"Shit," Toye softly cursed.

And then there was fog again, welcoming him back with a cold hug that sucked him away into the unfeeling clouds heedless of how he tried to dig his nails in to stay.

* * *

"Lieb."

 _Caroline… can't…move… fucking nurse…_

"Hey, Lieb. Wake up. You said it should have worn off by now, right?"

"Well, everyone reacts differently –"

Slowly he felt the mattress underneath him again. The leather straps holding him down. The smell of antiseptic and gauze.

It was dark when he opened his eyes. A splash of silver light cut across him, reflecting off the buckle holding his left arm against the bed rail.

"Hey, he's moving."

It was night. The window across from him slowly emerged from the outlines of the room, showing him the full moon hanging in the sky.

"Lieb, can you hear me?" a voice whispered in his ear. He slowly rolled his head over until he saw a dark shape standing over him. He blinked and the shape moved, going to fiddle with the restraints.

"Lieb?"

The familiar hoarse tone finally registered in the lingering confusion webbing his brain. He blinked again.

"Toye?"

"Welcome back to the land of the living." The band across his chest gave way and was tossed to puddle limply on the other side of the bed. Hopping on his good leg, the sergeant moved down to Joe's ankle and began loosening that buckle as well.

The sound of rustling on his other side had him jerking his head back around. Another person stood illuminated in the moonlight, disconnecting his IV. She was a nurse, but her face was unfamiliar.

"What are you guys doing?" He croaked.

"Getting you the fuck out of here," Toye murmured, tossing away another restraint and moving to his left leg.

"I'm going to take off the bandages stabilizing your arm. Do not move until I tell you to do so, understand?" the nurse whispered at him as she moved to his other side. Toye ripped off the other leg binding.

Joe stared dumbly at her. "Yeah – I mean, you are getting me out? How? Why?"

"Because that fucking broad don't have the right to keep you here all doped up," Toye answered, his voice dropping to an angry grumble. "I don't know what the hell you were sayin' in German, but for the number of times you were shouting her name nothing should be keeping you a prisoner here, including some damn nurse." He loosened the last buckle on Joe's left wrist and Joe pulled his arm free, carefully testing his fingers. The motion dragged through his vision and for a second he saw three of his own hand, but after a few seconds it sharpened back into one.

"You ready, Evelyn?" Toye asked over him.

The nurse wrapped one of her hands around his right elbow and the other on his wounded shoulder. "We need you to sit up. Don't try to use your right side and keep your arm still. Joe is going to help lift your left."

Toye grabbed his left hand. "On three, Lieb."

When they hefted him upward he thought his muscles were going to rip right off his bones and a deep and horrible groan came out of him. His stomach, crunching for the first time in almost three months, spasmed and cramped. His arms shook in Toye's and the nurse's hands. His spine cracked painfully in thirty places and his head swam. His shoulder felt like it was dislocating with every inch they moved.

"That's it," the nurse said softly as he let out a shaky breath and came fully upright. "Can you swing your feet around towards me?"

Slowly he shuffled his legs to the side as Toye supported his back until he was turned and perched on the side of the mattress, pale and nauseous. The nurse watched him, biting her lip.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she cautioned, looking between him and Toye.

He swallowed back the bile pooling in his throat. "Y-yes. I need to get back over there."

"He's a tough son of a bitch," Toye reassured her. "Ain't ya, Lieb?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to bring back the ice to crush the increasingly alarming pain. "G-got fucking Sobel to leave me a-alone, didn't I?"

There was a soft chuckle. "Sure fucking did."

"Are you fucking ladies done socializing in there?" an irritated hiss came from the hallway and Guarnere's head popped through the doorway. "We don't have all fucking night. The driver's gotta leave soon."

"Almost," Toye told him. "Don't piss your fucking pants. Are you good to stand, Lieb?" He moved over to an army duffel on the floor and pulled out a pair of pants. "We had to guess on your size, but we got a stripe sewn on so you won't get shit for an improper rank."

The nurse was bearing most of his fucking weight from his side and he gingerly got to his feet, his knees knocking and wavering. Toye carefully maneuvered his feet through the legs of the pants and hoisted them up to his waist. Sitting heavily back on the bed, he buckled them with white hands as Toye pulled out an undershirt.

"How should we do this?" he asked the nurse.

"Very carefully," she responded, grabbing his injured arm again. She warily straightened it out towards his thigh, watching both his face and the bandages around his chest.

"Shit," he muttered through clenched teeth as his shoulder joint moved the few centimeters, sending daggers of pain towards his fingers. They quickly laced his arm through the shirt and pulled it over his head before the nurse moved his arm back to clutching his burning chest. Toye lowered himself to the floor and began shoving his feet into socks and boots.

"This is a sling." The nurse was looping something around his arm and tying it behind his neck. "The bullet did a lot of damage to the muscle and bone in your right upper chest. You need to avoid moving your arm and shoulder at all costs."

"Yes ma'm." He was feeling lightheaded and dizzy. Toye was done tying his shoelaces and lifted his hand up towards her. Without hesitating she grabbed it and helped pull him back up on his foot.

They didn't let go right away and he groggily watched their grip linger. The nurse smiled.

 _Caroline._

Breaking apart, Toye grabbed a jacket and they negotiated Joe's good arm through it, leaving the other half resting on his tender shoulder.

"These are some supplies you are going to need." The nurse was all business again, holding a messenger bag. She fished out a glass bottle. "Pain medication. When it gets to be too much take two of these, no more than once every four hours." She next held up a wad of bandages and bottle of antiseptic. "Change the bandages on your chest every day. Clean the sutures with the antiseptic, cover them with fresh gauze, then wind the bandages around your chest like you have them now. You will need to find someone to do it to the entry wound on your back. And, for heaven's sake, if you develop a fever or the wounds start having discharge get to a doctor immediately. As soon as you find whoever you are looking for it wouldn't be a bad idea to see one anyway. Head Nurse Williams may be unsympathetic, but she was right that you really shouldn't be traveling at this stage." She pressed the strap of the bag into his left hand.

"There's some mail you got while here in there too, from the guys, as well as some money and your dog tags," Toye added.

There was a pause while he looked at the bag, then the probably stolen uniform they got him.

"Thank you," he told them quietly, sincerely. "I owe you guys one."

"Hey, we're Toccoa men. This ain't nothin'," Toye replied seriously.

"Although some of us wouldn't mind a beer when this shit is done with," Guarnere added from the hallway. "You guys ready?"

"Yeah." Toye hopped over to the shadows and emerged with a wheelchair. "Now for the easy part. There's an ambulance waiting outside. Evelyn here is going to wheel you outta here and help load you up. If anybody asks you send them to one of us. We'll make up some bullshit orders."

Joe nodded.

"The driver is gonna take you over to the airfield at Upottery. Gonorrhea's calling in a favor with a pilot we knew back before Normandy. He's taking a load of supplies to the 1st over by Strasbourg. From there you will need to figure out a way to get to Easy – last I heard they were near Berchtesgaden. Hopefully once you find Malarkey he can give you an idea of where Nixon and Caroline went. You got all that?"

"I think so."

"Alright, Lieb. Good luck and we'll see you someday back home, yeah?"

Joe took Toye's outstretched hand with his own unsteady one and gave it a shake. _Home._ The States. He was going fucking back eventually. What a concept. "Of course."

His steps over to the wheelchair were small and hesitant but his legs held steady and he settled down into it as Toye grabbed his crutch.

"Tell this German broad she owes us too," Guarnere muttered to him as the nurse pushed him out of the room. " _Two_ beers each."

"I'll be sure to tell her some loud-mouthed Philly named after a sexual disease will be waiting to hear from her," he murmured back, settling the bag in his lap.

Guarnere smirked. "I'll see you around kid. Glad to see you're still in one piece."

"See you, Bill, somewhere that isn't fucking here."

"I hear that, Lieb. Now get the fuck moving. She's waitin' on ya."


	43. Chapter 41

**Hi everyone! I hope you guys are doing well! It's my favorite month, October! I've already had my requisite Starbucks PSL and bought a book of a thousand pumpkin recipes I plan to study like a religious text. I might turn into an actual pumpkin by the time November hits, but I'm so happy it is autumn!**

 **Thanks you so much for the response on the last chapter! I think it might be one of my favorite chapters so far. And I love Gonorrhea and Toye as much as you guys do; I'm just sad they weren't around for more of this plot.**

 **Laea - welcome to the story! I'm so happy you love it.**

 **GumihoGold - they totally would help Lieb break out. I'm so glad I was able to include them in the story!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

I don't know what to make of _peace_.

The machines of war can be so ubiquitous that it almost is startling when they stop, a sudden silence absent the groans and the grindings of gears insatiably eating their way through men and materiel. War is noisy and constant, always _there_ and waiting for the opportunity to latch onto us and draw every ounce of life from our veins like a bloated, feasting tick. And for some reason we always invite it to sink it's fangs into us, thinking that somehow it will make things _better_ and that this harbinger of death will somehow fix our grievances and soothe our pain.

Even when it predictably doesn't, even as the lists of the dead grow long and that roar becomes a numbing background noise, we don't tear away. Eventually war becomes almost _comforting_ in its perseverance while we freefall to an uncertain end – the wisp of familiarity in the approaching and unkind future. When all the buildings have been burned and all the men slaughtered, war will still be there, standing in the wreckage. It is a monster tearing the world apart with its sharpened teeth, and when everything has been ground back into dust _peace_ is its exhausted return to slumber in our own Pandora's Box. Never quite locked away, it waits unit it is prodded awake once more to terrorize another generation who has the misfortune to exist just far enough into the future to forget how terrible it can be and lifts the lid to peer inside.

But the jarring thing about it is that the monster never just ambles away. It never peters out, letting the survivors lift their heads to watch it slog by and come to terms with the fact that it might be done. No, _peace_ comes as a sudden infliction, like a speeding car screeching to a stop seconds away from hurtling into a brick wall. Those left behind as collateral damage wait and hide, not believing that peace isn't just another trick until the stillness has lasted long enough and the dust has settled right on top of them. Then some politician will descend from a place far above the fray and will tell them, reassure them, that its really gone and promptly tally up the piles of bones and bodies to figure out who won, if that even matters. The loss and obliteration is so complete that in the immediate shocking anguish of the aftermath we will just stare, stunned, and wonder _why_ we let it go on for so long and _why_ we fed it our very flesh and blood and _why_ we ran headlong into our own annihilation.

 _Peace_ is petrifying. When war is all you've ever known, when you have spent your life gripped in its razor jaws, how do you cope with the silence? Without the distraction of the destruction, how do you start rectifying all you have lost now that the time has finally come? How do you move on without its constant buzzing in your ears and the death it brings circling your every thought? How do you start answering those _whys?_

Maybe you don't.

* * *

"Frauline Alsbach?"

The projector hums in the thick, anticipatory hush of the room. I feel the eyes on me, scrutinizing every inch from the top of my head to my back slouched in the chair and my feet planted flat on the floor. I don't – can't – look back and their revulsion and distaste are hammering into every inch of my skin they touch.

* * *

One thing I've realized over these months is that Americans love radio. There was always one on in the hospitals, playing American songs. Between records pretty-sounding women came on to, as I once also did, encourage the soldiers to keep their morale up and defeat the enemy. Every day, that would go on until it was replaced by men reading the news in serious tones, mentioning places like _Milan_ and _Okinawa_. Then their national anthem would play, loud and buoyant. After the last notes faded away there would be a few beats of dead air and finally, before the broadcast ended for the night, a man speaking in German would come through the speakers. A message for people like myself: foreign eavesdroppers. In the beginning it was something along the lines of the futility of our continued fight, the inevitability of defeat, and how this _peace_ would eventually be brought by American might.

There was only one station and one schedule looping over and over. I could tell the English parts changed but the German one didn't. It followed me from the military hospital in France to the next one in Austria, and to the final civilian one here in _München_. Civilian, but staffed by American personnel. So it was there, a constant presence. Glenn Miller filled my ears in the first confused moments when the darkness receded. Jo Stafford sung as I figured out where I was. Frank Sinatra nearly drowned out some dark-haired officer telling me in broken, terrible German that Joe lived. Benny Goodman was my only consolation when he couldn't convey to me anything else.

And the German every night. Defeat was coming. Fighting was futile.

Immobilized by the oxygen mask attached to my face and the stiff plasters stuck on my body I listened to it, day after day. Sitting upright to help drain the fluid from my lungs, I stared at the wall across from me, listening, my eyes dry and burning because I refused to close them. I knew once I did there would be faces waiting for me – faces off all the people I destroyed because of a cause that was falling apart with every jubilant word the radio spit out.

 _Why? Why? Why?_ I was a bitter poison, leeching into everyone close enough to me to get hurt. I understood that redemption was a pipedream and love was a reckless and dangerous solution to my predicament. Joe was another victim, another wrecked body left in my wake. Loneliness was always what made me desperate and reckless, but as I lay there in hospital after hospital I came to realize that it was really the only way I could keep anyone else from falling into the trap always at my feet, waiting to spring on the next victim in my sights – he included. He is alive and I can't allow myself any opportunity to risk his safety or wellbeing again. The reasons why he came after me aren't important, I told myself. And I stopped thinking about it. I stared at the wall and _stopped._

I had to.

As the days stretched and so did the absence of any word from him or about him, I thought that maybe I was being smart for once. The numbness flat-lining where my heart should be was easy enough to bear. I could get used to it again. I knew how to ignore the things that made me want to scream and rip my hair out by the roots. I could forget him. I could.

 _It's for the best._

* * *

"You are required to answer the question, Frauline Alsbach." The translator conveys their annoyance easily in her own tone and as another moment of silence extends the atmosphere of the room shifts with rising tension and thinning patience.

* * *

I was in France when I heard the news. A nurse was changing the dressings on my arm and a soldier was standing guard in the doorway, looking bored but ready to tackle me if I made a move towards her or to escape. I've caught glimpses of my chart as the doctors have flipped through it. Right on top: _POW._

The German came on, a new triumphant note in his pitch. He sing-songed the words, reveling in the message he had to give us.

Our _Fuhrer_ was dead. Suicide.

His country was falling apart, his people being ravaged by the monster, his people dying and suffering… and he ate a bullet.

 _Now who's the traitor?_

The second round of news that came a couple of weeks later wasn't surprising. Who were we to keep going without our _fearless_ leader? What did we expect would happen?

We lost the war years ago and that date was permanently carved into our destiny the moment we fired the first shot.

When it was announced there was a loud cry in the hallway, followed by another and another echoing through the hospital. The Americans grabbed at each other, hugging and brushing the tears from their eyes, and rushed by my doorway in jubilant groups to go celebrate. My guard that day yelled something at me in a _we kicked your ass_ sort of tone and shook hands with everyone going by, clearly frustrated with being stuck there.

I wouldn't have moved even if I could have. There weren't any German words amidst the shouting and cheers growing outside and coming through the window by my bed. I didn't really expect there to be.

It wasn't that I was not relieved. It wasn't that I thought the Allies shouldn't have won. The war had ended. The right people were still standing. Everything had happened as it should.

…It was the _abruptness_ of it.

The monster had disappeared so fast all I could do was sit there and wonder what had happened. For years there had been one mission – one speed to operate. War. Victory. Nazis.

Then in the space of one second it was all over. One tick of the hand of the clock from one spot to another and everything changed.

What happened now?

There was no more Dr. Mueller to give orders, no more Henrich to avoid, no more village to tiptoe around. No more Schueller, Greta, or Goebbels. No more Anne, Daniel, or Karl. But I was still standing and that seemed _wrong_.

 _Peace._ What did that look like? What did it entail? How does one just not… fight?

The Nazi Party has been obliterated and where does that leave me, a woman who feels like there has never been a time when she hasn't been part of it? Who really shouldn't have lived to be here?

* * *

"Frauline Alsbach."

It isn't a question anymore. But I don't want to look up. I don't want to see, to declare that yes, I am what they all thought I was. What Joe saw me as and what I will, indubitably, always be defined as being. What left him with only a bullet wound and a dying rattle on a hard forest floor as souvenirs of our time together. He should resent me for who I am and what I made him do. He should hate me for telling him I loved him as if those were the last words he would hear when after everything that has happened my love is no more than a manipulative bludgeon that leads him into ruin.

He shouldn't have been there. He shouldn't have done it.

My fingertips press into the wood of the desktop, going white and making my bandaged left forearm ache. _Do not think about him. It's done._

"Frauline Alsbach," the translator tells me as a deeper voice calls out to me, "do you understand that if you do not cooperate you will be categorized as hostile and interred pending the commencement of the trials scheduled to take place in Nuremberg?"

My fingerprints stay on the wood for a moment after I lift my hands away, foggy ovals that quickly fade in the heat of the room. There is a soft whisper from my side. "Caroline."

It's the only word he can say to me that I understand. They didn't give me a lawyer who speaks my language and I grind my still-aching jaw in irritation at this kangaroo court as they all continue to watch, waiting for the fateful words to confirm that I am the person they want to hate. What I did in the last few years did not make up for that evil I should have known better to avoid altogether. I was owed what happened to me and the fact that I am still alive with the images of Joe dying and bleeding joining those of the all the others dying and bleeding _also_ because of me means that maybe not answering and accepting my fate was the right course after all. It would be easiest if I remained, imprisoned and shamed, with nothing but the memories of all the suffering I inflicted as the real punishment for what I had done.

* * *

They came for me in Austria. One warm, sunny morning the soldier standing outside my door snapped up straight and jerked his hand up in salute as a cavalcade of footfalls came down the hallway. I had been expecting them but that didn't stop my pulse from leaping in my throat.

The sun bounced off the brass and ribbons hanging from their uniforms as they paraded in, surrounding my bed. Their backs were rigid and their mouths flat lines as they stared at me. I stared back. These weren't more foot soldiers. I could tell from where their hands hung at their sides that their nails were clean and their palms smooth. They hadn't been in the fight. They were above the messy business of actual war.

The dark-haired officer who knew Joe was behind them, hanging around the door and looking peeved at the half circle of men around me. He was the only one who glanced at me with anything but disdain. No, he looked at me with pity instead and unfortunately I wanted neither.

I pulled the oxygen mask off my face with a quivering hand. "I'm ready."

My voice was thin and harsh with the rawness in my chest. One of them stepped forward and said in perfect if awkward German: "You are Caroline Alsbach, correct?"

"I am."

"The Caroline Alsbach who is a registered member of the Nazi Party?"

"Yes."

There was talking in English between them. "You were under the command of Dr. Albrecht Mueller and Dr. Joseph Goebbels?"

"That is correct."

There were more questions, so many questions. My date of birth. My birthplace. My parent's names. Henrich's full name. The date I met Dr. Mueller. The date I met Goebbels. The date Henrich and I were engaged.

Where was the training camp? How long was I there? What did they teach me?

The sun creeped past the window as they continued, rapid fire. A nurse brought some chairs in for them to sit.

When did you meet Hitler? What was the nature of your relationship with him? What about your interaction with Goebbels?

What documents do you have? Did you see any correspondence from or to any of the leadership? Did you meet Heinrich Himmler? Hermann Göring? What do you know about him?

When did you first visit Kaufering? Did you know what was taking place there? What do you know about the plans for the genocide?

You were included on high-ranking Party meetings, were you not? What were they about? Who was present?

 _I don't know._

Finally, as night crept across the landscape, they fell silent, frowning even deeper. The dark-haired officer looked exhausted even though he had barely spoken.

The translator's voice cuts through one more time. "We have the photographic and film evidence of your involvement. Ignorance will not be a valid defense. You know the answers to our questions and you need to comply forthrightly and honestly."

I thought of the haze of denial for the couple of years I was active and the cloud of detachment after the Wolf's Lair. I had been in all the places they said. I had attended those meetings as they plotted the Final Solution. But I hadn't paid attention. I was there for decoration and to ease Dr. Mueller's mind that I was somehow complicit by my presence. I hadn't spoken. I hadn't participated. I sat there blankly and stewed deeply within my mind and let the facts they wanted swing right over my head.

I rubbed my eyes, my voice reduced to a whispering creak. "I was just… doing what I was told. Following orders. I don't know anything. I wasn't there because I wanted to be. I was forced into the program – my parents –"

They start to stand, cutting me off. The translator looks down his nose at me as he straightens his uniform. "Yes, we have your files, Frauline. That is why we are going to recommend that you be bind over for a judicial hearing to determine your culpability and the subsequent necessity for a trial for war crimes rather than send you to trial immediately. The validity of your story and your eventual cooperation in the Nazification program need to be examined, as what happened when you were a child does not absolve you of responsibility for what you may or may not have done afterwards."

Then they filed out without another word, the dark-haired officer nodding to me briefly before following them and leaving me alone.

Alone, and looking at the _whys_ I was about to be prosecuted to answer. The monster was gone and now it was time to face the consequences.

 _Peace_ was more terrifying than anything Dr. Mueller could have done or anything the war could inflict. There was no hiding from the truth now. _Peace_ would be what finally destroys me.

* * *

"Your Honor," my lawyer stands and the civilian interpreter leans in closer on my other side to tell me what he says. She smells like coffee and perfume and her lipstick is perfect. "I believe my client is still suffering from the effects of her ordeal last spring. May I ask for a continuance for the hospital to evaluate her mental and physical suitability for these proceedings?"

" _Nein."_ My lips draw the word, stiff with scabs and reluctant with sorrow. The hospitals of France and Austria were tolerable but Munich is a place of pure hell, a place where I wouldn't be left to think about what I'd done but be confronted by it. Instead of Allied wounded the beds are filled with my compatriots, torn apart before the surrender and now trying to heal under the watchful eyes of the rightful victors and lamenting how they came to be like this, how we failed both as a nation and as a people. Their fingers will eventually point to us, those who lead them into the depths with promises of everlasting glory.

I'm a coward and duck their blame just like everything else. But this time I don't have that little shack to shelter my retreat from the world and my surrender to my moral duty. Now I just have the silent condemnation of this courtroom to curl under and hold tight.

A stab of pain erupts from my taped nose as I try to take a breath and move my gaze from the table in front of us. The image is projected on the wall directly across from me, a collection of sepia light threatening to pull me below the vicious tide of guilt I'm barely treading. She watches me too, with eyes that are cold and dead, silently commanding me to lift my head and take responsibility for what I became.

I listen, drawing my face upward until blue meets icy grey. "Yes, that is me."

The photograph of myself, so prim and proper in my uniform and my chin thrust out as if daring anyone to suggest that I couldn't be _loyal._ That I couldn't be a _traitor._ That I wasn't _changed._

She stares at me, her eyes reaching into my chest and carving my heart right out to leave behind a bloody, deep hole right where I tell myself I should be not thinking about _him_. I became her – I _am_ her – but she holds my heart in her fist, squeezing our greatest weakness with the fury and brutality she knows we both possess. She is just brave enough to show it. To _live_ it.

She isn't a liar. She didn't fool a stranded man into thinking she could be saved or that she could be anything other than the truth hidden from him. She didn't try to help any Jews. She knows that this is not what we do. She knows what we really are. We are a killer, and to try to be anything else just adds to the body count around us.

 _She_ is what attracted Henrich to us. _She_ is what pushed us through the program. _She_ shot Mother. _She_ saved us from being executed or starved in a concentration camp with the rest of the partisans. _She_ told them how they could find Daniel and Anne.

I wish I could _rip_ her in half and she stares at me calmly, knowing this all along, and digs her fingers deeper into the organ that always betrayed her and lead us to where we are now.

The sound of the gears moving in the projector grinds through the still and humid air and with a flash she is gone. A new picture paints the wall.

Her, standing at a podium, the red banner filling the space behind her and the black swastika just above her head. Her teeth are showing in a careful smile.

"And is this you?"

My lungs scratch against the dusty air. "Yes."

Another loud and awful click.

Her, facing a group of schoolchildren. Their eyes are shining and their faces agog over the lies she told them. She holds out a pen, ready to autograph their waiting pictures and magazines. Her lips are open, frozen in the middle of producing some word. What was she saying? _Be loyal to your Uncle Adolf? Be good boys and girls and help us get rid of those Jews?_

I go for the water glass on the table in front of me.

"Is this you?"

My fingertips glance off the edge of the cup, making it wobble. My lawyer reaches over to steady it. My hand is stretched out, shaking in the choking and thick space between me here and her there, digging the hole to our imprisonment.

"…Yes."

 _Click!_

Her, at some rally I barely remember. Berlin? Hamburg? Dr. Mueller is on her left and Henrich is on her right. We are in the front row, looking at a speaker out of frame. I don't recall who. Our arms are raised, a perfectly synchronized _Sieg Heil._

"Is this you?"

My throat is dry and cracked when I swallow. I can barely breathe past the burning. I don't go for the water again, laying my arm limply against the sticky table. "Yes."

 _She is me._

I close my eyes as the next flash flickers through the room. The sparse audience watching behind me doesn't make a sound. I don't know them or why they are here to watch me confess to my own ruin. The faces change every day, as if they are curious rubberneckers slowing and stopping to watch the crashing inferno for a fascinated moment before moving on, thinking of this as an interesting antidote to tell their friends. Only one man, the same officer with dark hair and even darker eyes, comes regularly. He isn't here today.

"And is this you, Frauline Alsbach?"

Through my lashes I see a familiar shadowy stone room. _Me,_ in my Party khaki. Dr. Mueller beaming. Henrich looking nervous. And Adolf Hitler, smiling at the three of us.

I'm bowing slightly in his direction, the picture of reverence. Goebbels is at Hitler's side, blatantly eyeing my figure despite the camera's flash.

Just like that invisible bugs crawl across my skin, climbing up my back and neck and into my hair, _everywhere, everywhere –_

The first ripping cough barks out of my chest. I wipe by mouth with my hand, and taste gin on the back of my tongue. In the hollow hole of my chest there is the distant warmth of Henrich's sympathy and the faint memory of the hopefully delusional _maybe-he-could-be –_

And the ice cold realization of what he actually was.

The bugs chew into my skin. Invisible hands dig into my thighs, trying to pry them apart. "Yes."

The projector is snapped off, the wall going blank. "How long were you a member of the Nazi Party, Frauline?"

I can still see my hair balled in his fist. I can count the blades of grass in the back pasture outside the little window in my room. I can feel the straw mattress digging into my back as I did so. _I missed you so I thought I'd come for a visit._ "I joined in June 1940."

 _See how much easier things are when you don't fight?_

"And over the nearly five years you were a member, what was the nature of your activities?"

 _You are mine._ There was an ugly infection that nearly took my entire arm. Fluid is starting to stain the outer layers of the bandage. "I gave speeches, posed for photographs, and did interviews for magazines."

"Did you write those speeches?"

 _Mine_. "Some of them."

"What were they about?"

My tongue snakes out, wetting my chapped lips, tasting more imaginary, sour gin. My fingertips press back into the table. _Pain._ "A variety of things."

"Which ones do you recall in particular?"

The burning fire claws at the tissue of my lungs. The bugs are eating through my flesh. I heave the words out, answering with a rushed tremor. "Some of them were about supporting the war effort. Saving scrap, planting gardens, and the like… O-Others were to encourage men to sign up and fight. Quite a few were promoting Party loyalty to children."

I take congested breath but a clot grows in my throat. I stare at my arm instead of the lawyer. "Some were about Jews."

The prosecutor jumps on it. "What about the Jews?"

My hand flutters over my face, catching the stray hairs that escaped the tight bun on the back of my head. The linen dress they gave me is prickly against the scabs on my back. He wants me to say it. To smear myself with my own words.

My chest tightens. I cough. "About how… they were –" Then again a cough comes, my body blocking the truth from coming out. After all these weeks it still fights to live and knows – she knows, I know, _we_ know – that what I have to say is going to send me straight to Nuremberg. What happened in the latter years wasn't any sort of penalty or reparation to spare me; it was only exile into waiting for my next target, _Joe_.

The knot doesn't loosen and as I try to suck in some air it only spasms and clenches down, squeezing my lungs in a vice and trying to save me. I dig my nails into my palms, but stay still as I shudder with more coughs. It will pass. _Let me tell them what they want to hear._

The glass of water appears at the edge of my vision and my lawyer halfheartedly pats me on the back. Behind me the door to the room opens and I hear the guard stationed there speaking lowly. The translator is saying my name. _Talk! Talk!_

I can't and jerk in my seat, trying to inhale at the same time all the muscles in my torso are crushing in the opposite direction, desperate to stop the inevitable. My eyes are watering and my forehead goes to rest against the edge of the tabletop. Wrapping my arms around my aching ribs, I feeling the lumps of the bandages over the incisions. Everyone watches, a silent, unforgiving audience.

My lawyer moves away. I stay where I am, willing the coughing to stop. I hear him talking, maybe to the judge, and suddenly everyone in the room starts moving.

"The hearing has been adjourned for the day," the translator tells me shortly and I don't acknowledge her as she gathers her papers and makes herself scarce. My lawyer murmurs something in English and I feel him get up too. The table is cool against my burning forehead and I stare at the floor.

Usually at this point the MPs would be at my elbow to pull me back to my room, but I'm left alone as the doors swing closed and the air stagnates once more.

I close my eyes, but the dead are waiting. They spring forth, screaming at me in the blackness.

 _What have you done? What did you do? You were_ exterminating _us!_

Yanking them back open, I watch the hot tears splatter onto the wooden planks between my feet.

"Caroline?"

The knot slams down, twisting so tightly my bones bend with it. My teeth clamp down on my tongue and with a sharp flash of pain I taste the sour metal of my own blood. This is a cruel trick, an ugly way to make me suffer. The ghosts stay in the dark where they belong. Not out here, not when I'm awake and my eyes are open. _Please, just this small mercy._

I'm ignored and the torture sweeps down from above, laughing in the space of my skull.

"Caroline?"

Laughing at me and the shudder that slaps across arms and legs. _Don't you wish it was him?_ It sneers. _Don't you want it to be your precious Joe?_

The chair creaks as I rock forward, sliding my bruised cheek across the table as my hands dig in my hair, tugging painfully and destroying the bun. _Stop! No more!_

I thought it had been going well – that maybe I had a chance of not thinking about him every second. Every _other_ second was an improvement and I just want… I just need –

 _What? What makes you possibly think that you could ask for anything?_

My heart is gone but it still rips its talons into the hole where it used to be, tearing at what it can reach. _You thought you could just walk away? That you could leave him behind and save him?_

"No!" I squeeze my eyes shut and even though the lost souls shriek at me again I can't open them. I have to stop thinking about him. There is the sting of my strands coming free from my scalp as I tug harder. I had to _stop._ Joe is still alive and he needs the chance to move on, to become anything other than another casualty in my long, murderous shadow. He needs a chance to be _happy!_

"…Caroline?"

 _When have you ever saved_ _ **anybody**_ _?_

Cold air scrapes my windpipe as I inhale. It's so _awful._ I'm going to throw myself through a window. Even with a limp I could make it before the MPs could react. Just freefall and _stop this_ forever.

A hesitant touch, the slightest whisper of fingers brushing the back of my palm buried in my hair. "Darlin'?"

 _Darlin'._ I'm up and out of the chair, colliding against the table with my hip bones and shoving it towards the judges' empty seats. My feet twist and slip as I stumble, every stitch and healing bone in my body igniting with pain. He grabs at me, but his grip slips from the fabric of my dress or grazes my arm just out of reach. The hard floor jerks up to greet me and I land harshly on my tailbone, bouncing my back off one of the table legs. The pain is immediate and intense and for a moment I am reeling, pushing away from this place and who waits when I open my eyes.

 _You've gotten your wish. Now you can tell him in person._

The hair on the back of my neck stands up and I'm crashing back to Earth, where the agony is slowly fading and his voice digs into my ears with the sharpness of broken glass.

It can't be him.

It can't be.

The ache pulses behind my closed eyes. _It isn't him._

A touch on my left wrist, fingers encircling it and searing it right down to the bone. The scab on my forearm has been torn and the bandage feels wet. It's bleeding through and the word will be painted on me. _Meine._

I rip my arm back, tearing my eyes open.

Hair the color of chocolate. Matching, warm irises. Pale, arm in a sling, looking as unsteady as I feel. _It's him._

He is crouched in front of me, his hand open between us and his fingertips stained with a few drops of my blood. Not again, not _here._

Pale, because of me. Weak, because of me. _Injured,_ because of me.

" _N-Nein_ –" I grab onto the table behind me and haul myself up. He rises too, watching me so intently I want to curl up and die. The dark-haired man from the hospital is behind him, also staring. An assistant to the prosecutor is in the far back of the room, fiddling with the projector and marking a clipboard while watching us out of the corner of his eye.

The dark-haired man says something and Joe answers in English, not looking away.

If I wanted to I could reach out and touch him. Feel the warmth of his chest and the hard planes of his face again. Run my fingers through his hair. Push my lips against his – God, he smells like I remember. He smells like those two warm and wonderful days when I fooled myself into thinking it would never end and that we had a future. He smells like the brief dream I thought I had until I was shaken back awake and nearly _killed_ him.

 _Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get away from him!_

His lips part and I can't move. "Caroline –"

Both of their faces are suddenly illuminated in a white light. The projector whirs next the assistant and something appears on the wall behind me.

Joe's eyes automatically flick to the disruption before returning to me. But then his brows draw together and he looks back up, studying whatever image is thrown onto the wall.

He pales even further.

I snap my head around and look towards the picture now displayed, dominating the wall and arching towards the ceiling.

 _Me_ , in one of my classroom visits and surrounded by young children. We had spent all morning drawing and coloring and now proudly displayed our creations for the camera. My smile is still practiced, but I'm there, nonetheless, and holding the poster I had made. The bottom is sketched in with mountains, grey now but I remember the bright green crayon I had used. The sky was dominated by a large swastika. In the middle are the words, _Der deutsche student kampft fur Fuhrer und volk._

It was one of the many phrases I had memorized and regurgitated over and over again. _The German student fights for Fuhrer and folk._

Next to me is a boy who barely comes up to my elbow. His poster holds a lopsided Star of David, crudely crossed through with an _X_ I remember as being red. Below it are stick figures drawn in various horizontal angles, each with an exaggerated curling beard or hooked nose. Smaller _X_ s mark where their eyes should be. A hastily scribbled puddle, made of more red, fills the rest of the paper beneath them.

My arm is around the boy's shoulders.

 _Why are you smiling like that?_

I recoil, and when I whip back around I knock against the table again, backing away. Joe is stock-still, staring at the photograph. The dark-haired officer looks tense as his gaze shifts between us carefully.

Then, slowly, Joe refocuses back on me and when our eyes meet again the emotion is plain on his haggard face.

Anguish.

 _Not again._ I can't put him through this again. I trip back a few more steps, knees shaking. He has to get away from me. I have to get away from him. I can't hurt him again; can't deal with the expression that I know will be on his face when he finds out the rest of the story. That pain in his cry in the woods before he left me was so raw and fierce that I would do anything to save him from it, even if it means avoiding him from the rest of my life.

"I'm sorry," I mutter towards him, dropping my gaze to the floor and still a stupid coward who can't look at him. It's the only thing I can think of to say, even if just like last time it still makes no difference. _Sorry_ is a pretty but empty apology that does nothing to heal a wound like this one.

When I stumble towards the MPs at the door he doesn't follow. When I look back he is still standing next to my toppled chair, staring at my grinning face.


	44. Chapter 42

**Hi everyone! I hope you are doing great!**

 **First - I am so sorry about the delay! I hope you haven't forgotten about the story! :)**

 **Second - As a thank you for your patience, I'm posting TWO Joe chapters today! I agree with ya'll that Joe's chapters are the best, so I hope you enjoy them. Ch. 43 is going to be posted right after this one, so keep clicking through.**

 **Third - although it may not seem like it, this story is in the final act. It is already way longer than I predicted it would be, but I don't plan on stringing the characters along forever. An FYI in case anyone is getting impatient.**

 **Please let me know what you think :)**

* * *

It had all started well enough – no one stopped him from leaving the hospital and he arrived in Upottery without fanfare to the waiting plane. The pilot was a nice enough guy, nice enough to not cause a stir at the sight of a bandaged, wobbly soldier bursting out of an empty ambulance and shakily scrambling on his plane with barely a word.

But things started to teeter downhill when they were in the air. With every shake and rattle the pain gnawing at him under the bandages dialed up higher and higher until he was fishing for the bottle of medication in the bag between his knees even though he wasn't due another dose for a couple of hours. As he carefully chewed on what he told himself would be just _one_ pill the pilot yelled over the roar of the engine that they had to change their flight path due to something about the fucking weather. Swallowing the chalky tablet and white-knuckling his control to not upchuck all over the floorboards, he barely listened and stared at the clouds in front of them. He must have missed the part of the pilot's speech, then, that explained the goddamn reason why this meant that they would be flying six fucking feet above the water of the Channel. Joe couldn't wear the safety harness properly because of his sling and bandaged shoulder, so when they lost altitude and started smacking against the rough pockets of air close to the surface he nearly ripped off the seat cushion while holding on for dear life with his one functioning hand. By the time they landed Joe had frantically knocked back three more pills – _fuck_ the nurse's orders– and felt like he had been tossed around like a marble in a tin can.

All four doses looped through him as he stumbled back onto land at Strasbourg, resisting the urge to kiss the goddamn ground. The pilot gave him a sympathetic pat on the back and a quick "Good luck!" before running over to supervise the crew pulling down the loading bay ramp at the rear of the plane. He was left, squinting and rocking against the bright sunlight, in the middle of the bustling airfield. The dirt under his feet was German, but he was on the other fucking side of the country from Berchtesgaden.

The air felt hot and his vision fuzzed around the corners as the drugs continued to dissolve into his bloodstream. Wiping his forehead with the back of his arm, he slung his bag up on his shoulder and made his way towards what looked like a truck depot at the paved edge of the field. He wasn't too conspicuous with the jacket covering most of his sling, but as he entered the mess and wandered between truck drivers to find one heading in the right direction he kept an eye out for any tightwad officers who might bust his ass for being AWOL from the hospital.

"Hey buddy, you don't look so good," a short, balding sergeant called out him as he cautiously ambled by a crew loading boxes of food rations. Scuffing the soles of his shoes on the pavement, Joe stopped and warily watched the man's approach, silently cursing to himself.

"You alright?" the sergeant continued, raising an eyebrow.

Joe carefully pulled the jacket closer around him so that most of his side was out of view. "I'm trying to find a ride to get back to my unit in Berchtesgaden."

The man's eyes landed on the visible sash of the sling. "You come from the hospital?"

"Just dislocated my shoulder. Got to keep the sling on for a few but I'll be fine," Joe lied quickly, not looking away and wishing his legs didn't feel so rickety. Collapsing into a pile at the moment would not be very convincing.

The sergeant frowned, clearly not buying it from Joe's white and clammy face. "Do you have orders? They haven't been sending guys back since the surrender. You should be heading for the States."

Joe bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying not to faint. He was getting goddamn loopier by the second. "I'd prefer to be back with my u-unit," he answered lowly.

"What unit is that?"

"Easy Company, in the 506th –"

The sergeant startled, eyes going wide. "Are you shitting me? You're one of _those_ guys?"

Joe swallowed and shifted his weight between his feet. He needed a drink of water. Or a cigarette. Or maybe a punch to his fucking gut. His head felt like a balloon that was about to break free and float away. Those fucking drugs and that goddamn nurse who _told_ him he should be careful. "Yeah."

The other man gave Joe another once-over. "I didn't know… your uniform doesn't have any patches – if you are pulling a fast one on me to stay out of trouble –"

The sun was so fucking hot and he was so close to getting to Easy and it was so fucking tiring dealing with people getting in his way. "I had to borrow a uniform but I got my dog tags if you want to see if I'm lying," he interrupted, his tongue feeling swollen in his mouth. "Are you going to Berchtesgaden, Sarge?"

The man chuckled, sticking his hand out to shake Joe's. "It makes sense now! If I was in your shoes I wouldn't want to be sent to Japan with anybody else either. Jeez. You know I heard all about what you guys did at Bastogne –"

This guy wasn't going to be any fucking help so Joe put in the barest amount of effort to humor him to avoid stirring up any shit, shaking the hand with his own cold one. "Is…that right?" Clenching his toes in his boots to stop the fucking circle he seemed to be rocking in (if he was really moving at all or just goddamn dizzy), he looked past where they were standing for any other trucks that seemed to be about to depart. Going in the wrong direction would at least get him moving, and fucking moving was better that being stuck here with this bullshit.

" – NUTS! _NUTS!_ I tell you what, we had a good laugh when we read that. You guys are legends around here, you know? Sure showed them Krauts – "

Christ, he was going to throw up. Where was his head? Six feet above his body? No other trucks were even running. 79 days was quickly turning into 80 and Joe wrapped his hand around the bag strap again, his knuckles aching as he dug his fingernails into it. He returned his gaze to the sergeant who was looking at him like he might ask for a damn autograph and blinked, long and slow, and felt his heart beating in his ears.

The sergeant noticed and stopped mid-sentence. "Do you need to go to the aid station or something? What hospital did you come from? I'm not going to bust you, but I can't have a guy dying on me, especially not a Screaming Eagle."

"I'm f-fine, Sarge. I need to just get to Berchtesgaden… please," he ground out, willing his eyes to focus and remain steady.

Finally, the guy seemed to understand that Joe was in no mood for fucking around and looked down at his clipboard. "I don't have anything going to Berchtesgaden, but there's a fresh load of jeeps and motorcycles going to Traunstein. That'll at least get you pretty close. They are loading up over on the other side of that warehouse over there. I gotta warn you though, the S-4 commanding the transport is one hell of a SOB. He will probably have you sent back if he knows you skipped out of the hospital."

Motorcycles. Transport. And a son of a bitch S-4 in charge of it all.

With a sharp _pop_ the balloon taking Joe for a ride burst and he hurtled back down to earth so hard he was surprised a crater didn't form in the asphalt under his boots. He straightened, his eyes snapping to the sergeant and finally clearing some of the fog. _It couldn't fucking be -_

No, no, no – his mind was just fucking with him. It _had_ to be.

He knew who it was, someway and somehow. But there was no chance he could be right. His luck couldn't be that fucking bad. There was no fucking way it could be _him._

"That S-4… is it – is it goddamn Captain _-Fucking-_ Sobel?" he rasped at the sergeant sharply, drawing a few stares from the men around them. But goddammit, he _knew._

The sergeant's head snapped up from reading his clipboard, his expression taken aback. "I wouldn't call him that to his face, but… yeah. How the hell did you guess that?"

Of course. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," he mumbled under his breath and dug his fingers into his eyes, trying to rub the sluggishness away. Even the thought of seeing that man again made something unpleasant twitch in the back of his head, breaking the through the heavy blanket of narcotics weighing him down. Only Sobel could sober a man up like this.

With a sympathetic look on his face the other guy pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped them against his palm. "He was your original CO, wasn't he? I thought I overheard him saying something like that once."

"Could I bum one off of you?" Joe wasn't listening, staring off in the direction the man indicated Sobel was in and wondering if the rest of the pills in that bottle could make him high enough to not want to murder Sobel as soon as he set eyes on that asshole.

"Yeah, sure. Fuck, take the whole pack. I don't blame you."

Clenching the proffered cardboard package in a clammy fist, he hiked his bag further up on his shoulder and set off in an only slightly weaving path towards the warehouse in front of him.

"Good luck!" the sergeant called after him. Joe gave him a halfhearted wave back. It fucking seemed the more people who wished him _good luck_ the worse everything became.

As he rounded the corner of the building he stopped in the shade and thumped the bag down at his feet. He needed some nicotine in him before he faced this motherfucker and he shook the packet with his one hand until a cigarette popped out of the opening. Grabbing it with his lips, he tucked the pack away and went for the lighter left in one of the pockets of his jacket by whatever poor schmuck Toye and Gonorrhea nabbed the uniform from. Taking a deep drag, he thought again about the pain pills.

He really shouldn't. His judgement was already being fucked with enough if the blurry frame still around his vision was any indication. He needed some self-control to get through this.

"This cargo better be strapped down to my standards, Private. If I find one scratch on _anything_ you aren't going to set foot off this base until it's on the plane to head home, understand?" a nasally, arrogant voice drifted over to him, making him rethink his decision again immediately. He shivered against the building. That _fucking_ voice. He sucked harder on the cigarette, catching sight of an oily black head of hair determinedly wading through the rushed group of enlisted men loading up vehicles. All this fucker needed to say was goddamn _Hi-ho Silver!_ and Joe was going to grab one of the idling jeeps and run him the fuck over.

His hatred for Sobel ran deep and it was just fitting that this was his only fucking way to Caroline. After all, God had a fucking grudge against him it seemed. He was _trying_ to avoid tightwad officers and the most stick-up-the-ass one of them all was the one he was going to have to try to hitchhike with.

A deep throb came from the hole in his chest despite the drugs and he swallowed a groan.

Wasn't there an instance before when one of the guys who was shot in the butt got a ride from Sobel? Popeye maybe? It probably was. Out of all the ass wounds in Easy, Popeye was the only one that Sobel could've liked enough to rein in his shit-shoveling nature and be a good guy for once. That courtesy definitely did not extend to Joe. Even after the years since Georgia, North Carolina, and Aldbourne – even after all the battle scars and wounds that Joe now sported and the deep changes that came with them – he couldn't picture them ever being more than two bastards staring each other down on a dark mountainside march.

The men were rolling down the canvas covers on the backs of the trucks and locking the tailgates. He was running out of time and needed to make a choice quickly. Take his chances with someone else going in the wrong direction and getting stranded even farther from her? Or get court martialed for punching a fucking Captain in the face and never see her at all?

If the thought of trying to use a gear shift with his right arm didn't make his stomach flip with trepidation he would just steal a jeep again and drive directly to them, hopefully flattening Nixon when he got there.

But he couldn't, and he needed to get moving.

"Fuck it." He threw the spent cigarette away and snatched his bag. Stepping back into the sunlight, he made his way towards the group with quick, determined steps, letting the fuzziness of the drugs clog his thoughts enough that he didn't think about what the hell he was doing.

The son of a bitch in question didn't look up as Joe approached. A nervous-looking private stood at his side, holding a clipboard full of papers that Sobel was signing with a quick scratch of his pen. Sobel hadn't changed one bit in the year and a half or so since Joe last saw him and seeing his face again made ugly memories skim just underneath the layer of the numbing painkillers. It was too hot to wear that fucking sheepskin jacket he used to favor so much, but Joe wondered if he still pulled it out in the winter and if his men now made as much fun of it behind his back as Easy did.

The private looked at him curiously but Sobel didn't seem to notice his approach. Typical fucking obliviousness that would have gotten them slaughtered if Sink hadn't come to his senses. He cleared the loathing gathering in his throat with a cough. Sobel didn't blink and flipped a page.

Such _bullshit_. "Captain Sobel?" he said tightly. Then, taking a deep breath, "Sir?"

Bleh. He felt like he needed to wash his mouth out. _Sir_ was way too respectful of a title for this asshole.

Sobel jumped slightly and finally moved his gaze from the papers, his eyebrows already furrowing to glare at the lower-ranking individual who dared interrupt him. At first glance he evidently only saw the nameless uniform Joe was wearing and the glare hardened. "What do you wan–"

His snarl died as his gaze found Joe's face and he stilled as they stood there, watching each other again like no time had passed at all. The seconds ensued in silence and the air slowly grew tighter and tenser as neither man budged. Joe didn't react as the private snatched the clipboard back from Sobel's slack hand and hurried away like he was running from a live grenade. A few of the other enlisted men watched them carefully as well while they made their final preparations. Not staring because Sobel would have them running until their legs fell off if they did, but obviously interested in who approached a man with a reputation like their Captain's and apparently stunned him. Sobel didn't acknowledge them, his dark eyes still fixed on Joe. "Liebgott?"

Joe bit his tongue to stop himself from sneering. "Yes, sir."

Sobel was an ignorant fool when it came to maneuvers or awareness of what was happening around him, but when he focused – _particularly_ when it came to appearance – he didn't miss a damn thing. Joe held himself still as Sobel looked over his ashen face, down to the jagged scar on his neck, his calloused and nicked-up hand holding the bag at his shoulder, and finally to the sling across his chest and the noticeable wad of bandages under his uniform shirt. Part of him wanted to lash out and tell Sobel to mind his own fucking business and just let him hop in the back of one of the trucks, but he checked himself before it came out. He needed a favor from this piece of shit and being a jerk was not going to get it.

Sobel blinked and seemed to come out of his shock. Tearing his eyes away from Joe, he looked at the noticeable work slowdown happening around them. "You have two minutes to get this transport on the road!" he barked. "For every second we are late I am going to add one extra mile to tonight's run!"

Joe felt a pang of pity for the sorry bastards as they frantically returned to their duties. He wouldn't wish Sobel on anybody.

"What do you need, Corporal Liebgott?" Sobel turned back to him, his face guarded. He seemed wary. Joe was too. Despite the ranks separating them he felt like he was back on the streets of Brooklyn, watching the man across from him like he was going to throw a punch any second. He had a feeling Sobel was doing the same, only they both knew this time who would win, injured or not. At Toccoa Joe was rough around the edges, but out of shape and inexperienced in anything but bare-knuckle brawls driven by only the technique of fury. Sobel was the knowledgeable one, the fit and unforgiving commanding officer charged with shaping them into soldiers using his expertise and rigid expectations. He was all they had and even if he used that control to torture them there was never a question of who was in charge and who had their forced deference.

But today Joe was no longer the street rat who had enlisted out of desperation and Sobel was no longer the lauded leader of one of the first and finest paratrooper units in the US Army. Instead it was a hardened veteran and a discredited logistics officer facing each other in this parking lot, looking at each other like they were back on that fateful march. Even though those Captain bars were still pinned to Sobel's uniform and Joe still had to call him _sir,_ the balance of power had decidedly shifted and it wasn't in the officer's favor.

Joe wanted to use that to intimidate Sobel, to make him fester with anger and aggravation like the entire company did until Winters stepped in. It would be stupidly easy and oh-so-satisfying, but would torpedo him faster than he could say _Currahee_ and that'd be so asinine after all this. So he decided to take the high road and only jerked his chin towards the closest truck. "I heard you are going Traunstein, sir. Can I hitch a ride?"

Sobel's beady eyes narrowed and he looked at the truck Joe motioned to, frowning. "A ride? You want a ride? Where are you coming from?"

Joe thinned his lips and tried not to glare. Couldn't Sobel let a guy do anything without a fucking interrogation? "Just getting a few things taken care of around here, sir." He wasn't lying to a superior, really. _Around_ was subjective. Technically, New-fucking-York was _around_ if Sobel wanted to make a case about it.

Then again, this was the same piece of shit who court-martialed Winters purely out of spite. Joe felt his stomach sink as Sobel swung back to face him, not looking to be a charitable mood. Goddammit. "What is in Traunstein for you, Corporal? Why do I get the feeling that if I ask you for your order papers you are going to feed me a line of bullshit?"

You know what? He gave it a try, but fuck this. Joe's jaw ticked and the burning in his chest beat against his thin façade of civility. "Fair enough, sir," he answered levelly, not giving Sobel the satisfaction of getting him rattled. He wasn't afraid of this shit stain any longer. "I'll leave you to it."

He turned on his heel to walk away before Sobel could have the last word and the dulling blanket of the painkillers could fade enough that his fingers would go for Sobel's throat. He'll just have to take the roundabout way of getting to Caroline. Fucking Sobel. After everything that had happened – after a fucking war for chrissakes – he couldn't be decent for one fucking second to a guy who had survived his sadistic training _and_ the shit the Germans gave out and would appreciate a simple gesture like a fucking spot in the back of a cargo truck.

"Liebgott!" For a second Joe thought about pretending not to hear and simply keep walking, but at only a few feet away that probably would not believable and get him loaded on a ship back to England before he could blink. So he stopped, giving himself a second to squeeze his eyes shut and reinforce his backbone that the drugs and wound seemed intent on breaking, and turned silently back around.

Sobel hadn't moved, still watching him closely. His men watched too from their seats on the ready trucks and jeeps, waiting for the command to move out. Feeling their eyes, Joe realized then that Sobel had been just waiting for his audience to be in place before he ripped into Joe. The man always loved putting on a show to display how powerful he was and got his kicks out of the public humiliation of his subordinates. What could it possibly be this time? Walking away without being dismissed? Sloppy uniform? Being fucking AWOL?

Joe had his fill of petty tyrants over these last few months and let out a displeased huff. If Sobel wanted to have it out right fucking here so be it. His useless arm didn't matter – he didn't need to use his fists for this. He had survived alone in enemy territory on D-Day and again last March. He had faced down certain death and had dished it out himself. Sobel had pushed a desk the entire time Joe was fighting for his life and now had as much power over Joe as an irate toddler who wanted to throw a tantrum. Even his rank only went so far, Joe mused, if he tried to get Joe in trouble. With Sobel's history of uncorroborated, vindictive charges and his word against that of a battlefield _hero,_ even those two Captain bars were a shaky ground to stand on.

"Easy is in Berchtesgaden, aren't they?"

Joe narrowed his eyes and grit his teeth as he studied the Captain's face, not answering immediately. What the fuck was he playing at? Sobel's demeanor was still hard, still suspicious, but it was difficult to discern what was his natural haughtiness and what was a reflection of the thoughts going through that puny mind. Either way, Joe decided to cut the crap. He had nothing to lose now. Staying where he was, he nodded guardedly.

Sobel's black eyes jumped down to the sling again and Joe resisted the urge to pull his jacket back closed. He wouldn't be self-conscious in front of this asshole. It was too late to hide anything anyway.

Suddenly Sobel moved, whipping around and making his way to a jeep at the head of the column. "Fine," he called back to Joe. "Find a cargo hold with space and don't cause any trouble or I will leave you out in the middle of nowhere. I hope you are ready to go; we aren't waiting."

Joe cocked his head at Sobel's suddenly had a change of heart and stared after him as Sobel climbed into a jeep. But before he could contemplate on what the hell just happened the trucks began to shift into gear and he realized he better do something or he was going to get left behind. Darting over to the nearest one, he first flung his bag over the tailgate. Grabbing onto the handle welded next to the taillight, he stepped up onto the bumper just as the vehicle began rolling forward to follow the others towards the exit. Basically chucking his body across the tailgate like he did the bag, he managed to catch himself against a motorcycle before he landed hard but his chest still gave out an unhappy stab of discomfort. Chomping on his lip to stop the moan of pain, he planted his butt against the sidewall and rested his legs on the bag, thinking he could maybe forget about guessing at whatever Sobel's assuredly-awful motives were and get a few seconds of rest on the long drive.

Four hours and three more pills later, he was wishing for that fucking airplane again.

The road they were traveling on was serviceable, but it wasn't fully repaired from the war so he was thrown around again and again as the truck dipped and jumped with potholes and cracked concrete. Just like the trucks that took them in Belgium this one seemed to be missing shocks as well and he bitterly thought that it was classic that the Army wouldn't see fit to invest in some until after everyone was already fucking back home safe and sound. He ended up ripping off one of the motorcycle tie-downs to wrap around his waist and hold him to the sidewall so at least he wouldn't go catapulting to the other side of the goddamn bed.

By the time they eventually slowed those extra doses had done their job and he was _soaring_ on a fucking cloud of delirium.

Thoughts moved across his mind lethargically, one word at a time like ticker tape on a broken telegraph. The pain was finally subdued, but he found himself staring for an uncomfortably long amount of time at a bug that was resting on a ledge by his seat and still not realizing afterwards that it was, in fact, just a goddamn fly _._ He was hot. His clothes were heavy on his skin, strangling him with their weight. He could sense himself moving with the truck, but felt nothing as his body slid around or crashed with the motion. His eyeballs scratched against their sockets with every spasm of his muscles. He could feel the fucking _hair_ growing on his head.

Just fucking _fantastic._ Caroline – if he actually ever reached her – was going to think he been dropped on his skull and knocked stupid.

 _Get your shit together, Joe._

When one of the transport guys lowered the tailgate to check on the cargo after they stopped Joe almost tumbled right out of the goddamn truck. Just his improvised seat belt saved him from rolling onto the road. Slowly untangling himself from it, he went to get out how he thought was feet-first, but then he heard the enlisted man curse something and a hand caught his uninjured shoulder.

"You want to break your neck?" someone asked.

No, he didn't. Right, he sure didn't. Was he shaking his head? 'Cause he fucking didn't.

"Then slide your ass off the truck and stop trying to do a damn somersault. Do you want to piss the Captain off?"

No, he didn't want to do that either.

The hand stayed on his shoulder and helped guide him down until he felt his boots hit something solid and his weight cautiously settled top of them. The ground. He had made it onto the ground.

Thank Christ.

He tried to see where they were, reeling his head around and steeling his body not to follow the momentum and swing himself right onto his face in the dirt.

A few houses. Trees. Chickens pecking the ground. A handful of civilians silently watching.

This did not look like a place that needed a shitload of army motorcycles and a caravan of jeeps.

"A-are…" He could talk. Yes. Come on, he could fucking _talk._ "…Traunstein?" Close enough.

"No," the ever-helpful guy who stopped him from killing himself said behind him, "we are stopping for refueling."

God, it felt like he was drunk on something much more enjoyable than medication for the wound driven through his chest. There was a large rock sitting just off the road not too far from him and he tripped over to it to glue his bottom on the flat surface before he continued his dumbass streak and wandered into fucking traffic.

Where was his jacket? He was wearing one, wasn't he? Did he take it off? Or it fell off? He looked down at the bulky mass under his shirt and sling that were now clearly visible. He didn't see any sign that it was oozing with infection yet and, well, it wasn't killing him right now so maybe it was alright –

 _Sit up! Sit up!_

He seized his knee to stop himself before he bowled over off the rock. _Goddammit._ Nixon's first words better be " _Let me take you to Caroline"_ when Joe reached him or that guy was going to need a lot more than a bottle of whiskey to fix his problems.

A shadow fell over him. "Liebgott."

Son of a bitch. He looked up through the hair that had fallen across his forehead to see Sobel looming over him, blocking out the sun like a damn incoming meteor.

"S-sir," he slurred. Trying to straighten and maybe managing to.

Sobel was looking even meaner. Who the fuck cared?

"What happened to you?"

What happened to him? Well, his happy ass got left behind in fucking battle and he would have died had it not been for a smoking-hot _Nazi_ who sewed him back together and made him feel all sorts of bizarre, wonderful things but then turned out to have this whole _huuuge_ backstory that nearly destroyed him and made him do some terrible stuff that he was trying to fucking fix at the moment if his chest would magically heal and his brain would wake up from this goddamn stupor –

"...Some shit," he muttered. Then, remembering through the maze of the high who the stickler he was talking to was, he added, "Sir."

Sobel put his hands on his hips. Great, his universal " _time to march twenty four miles"_ posture. Joe tightened his grip on his kneecap to try to keep his balance.

"The Nazis do that to you?" Sobel nodded towards the mess of bandages that was the whole reason he could barely put two words together right now.

Joe couldn't stop the absurd chuckle that came out of his mouth. What _hadn't_ the Nazis done to him? They took a good part out of his neck, had gouged out his side, and gave his chest a fucking peep-hole. The Nazis were probably _very_ annoyed that he was somehow still alive. Not that he wasn't fucking bewildered too.

"Are you _drunk_ , Corporal?" Sobel apparently did not find his snicker a suitable answer. What an imbecile. What was he going to do? Leave Joe here out in fucking Nowhere, Germany? Fine. Walking would be easier than spending another second being thrown around a truck bed anyway.

"No, sir." He shook his head aimlessly, leaning precariously to the side again.

"Is that his?" Sobel was talking to someone else and in the corner of his vision he saw his bag hit the ground at Sobel's feet. Looking for goddamn contraband? Give him a fucking break. He _wished_ he had some liquor in there.

He straightened as Sobel pulled it open and drew out the meager contents. Extra bandages and gauze. The bottle of antiseptic. A batch of letters he hadn't gone through yet. His dog tags. A wad of British pounds notes, which Sobel paused to look at thoughtfully.

"You came from England?" Joe didn't answer. Toye and Guarnere had given him their own fucking money. If they got it from anywhere else than the S-8 stationed at the hospital it would have been in dollars. They shouldn't have done that for him. He was going to pay them back if Sobel didn't have him thrown in jail.

Sobel dropped the money on the pile of everything else and pulled out the last item – that evil little glass bottle. He held it up to look at the label.

"Pain medication," he said to himself and popped off the lid to look inside. Joe's arm was sweating and itching in the sling and he clumsily tried to adjust the fabric to make it more comfortable. He got it moved alright until one alarming pang from his shoulder made him stop. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, feeling Sobel watching him again.

"How many of these have you taken?"

Joe tugged at his hair again. "Too fucking m-many."

Sobel re-capped the bottle and started tossing everything back into the bag. Joe took the opportunity to close his eyes, trying to still the spiraling sensation. "You look like a sorry sack of shit, Liebgott. I would expect you would be more prudent and conduct yourself like a soldier worthy of Easy."

He almost laughed again, giving even less of a shit about what Sobel had to say than before he knocked back even more medication. But he wasn't amused at this point, not really. He was way past having the patience to be fucking lectured at like he was still in Basic.

He snapped his eyes back open. "Go get wounded in battle before you want to tell me how to conduct myself, _sir_. Once you are bleeding out on the ground I might listen to you tell me how to manage the fucking pain while riding in the back of a fucking truck that aims for every goddamn hole in the road."

It was the most words he had strung together in hours and the exertion nearly drove him to fall off the rock. His shoulder woke up again and he felt a grimace screw up his expression before he curled downward, dropping his head and avoiding Sobel's face while he waited for the wave to pass.

"S-shit," he grumbled to his lap. There was _one_ guy he needed to keep mollified. Only one, and he was making a mess of it like he couldn't help himself. Son of a _bitch._

Sobel didn't answer but Joe could feel his presence, as still as stone. The noise around them seemed to drop as well and he imagined they had a goddamn audience again.

He straightened, wiping the pain from his face. "I'm just trying to get back to Easy. I-I'll walk from here." Sliding ungracefully off the rock, he caught his balance and reached for the bag. "Thanks for taking me this far, sir."

Any hope in his pre-emptive attempt to get away from the Captain before he got fucking court-martialed withered as the bag was snatched before he could grab it.

"Come with me, Corporal," Sobel ordered him, his voice dark and flat. _Shit. Shit. Shit._ He watched dejectedly as Sobel marched away, Joe's bag gripped tightly in his hand. Hesitating to follow him to what was going to be a one-way ticket back to England, Joe tried to weigh his options with the slowly turning wheels of his brain. He could make a break for it. Sobel would find him eventually, but hopefully it would be once he was back with his company so they could close ranks around him and Winters, now outranking this asshole, could tell Sobel to go pound sand.

But even goddamn high as a kite he knew getting back to Easy on foot, with Sobel on his tail in a fucking jeep, was a long shot and when he was caught he would be straight up arrested. A more likely scenario would be him trying to run the rest of the way, ripping open his injury, and dying either from blood loss or infection God knows where without seeing Caroline again.

He couldn't do that. Not when he was so close to her. If he was sent back to the hospital at least he would live and have the opportunity to escape again. So, with no other reasonable recourse he could think of, he started dragging his feet to follow Sobel's retreating form, marching past the other soldiers who looked at him like this was a funeral procession going to the gallows. Fucking hell.

Sobel weaved between the bustle of men refueling the trucks and checking the equipment, the noise of the operation resuming as they left the rubberneckers who witnessed their incident behind back in the middle of the column. Joe kept up with him despite barely feeling his legs and the increasing bouts of stabbing pain in his shoulder. The Captain didn't say a word and didn't look back to check on him. Finally, the crowd thinned and he found himself at the head of the transport, where a private sat in the driver's seat of the lead jeep looking bored until Sobel came into sight and caused him to straighten to attention instantly.

"Sit," Sobel said sharply, pointing at the rear seat behind the private. Sighing, Joe did so without comment, staggering onto the hard metal bench with shaky knees. Tossing the bag onto the floorboard on the other side, Sobel turned and disappeared back into the crowd without another word.

What the fuck was going on now? Joe collapsed against the seatback, trying to rub some feeling back into his numb and sweaty face.

"Who are you?" The private was twisted around in his seat, looking at Joe curiously. More specifically, looking at the sling and seemingly put out by an unexpected new passenger.

"A fucking idiot," he mumbled in response, dropping his hand and looking in the direction Sobel stomped off in. The men were finishing up and starting to climb back into the vehicles. Joe wondered if Sobel was going to stay with them or escort him back to the base in Strasbourg personally. If he didn't Joe at least had a shot at ditching this private at the first opportunity.

"You ain't in this company. Where'd you come from? How'd you get injured?" The private pressed. _Mott,_ his uniform read. Where were his cigarettes? In the jacket. Where the fuck was the jacket?

"You have a spare smoke?" Joe asked. The sight of Mott blurred and twisted and he swallowed the threatening burn in his throat. Fuck, yeah, a cigarette would be fucking heaven right now.

"You didn't answer my questions," Mott responded sourly.

"No, I didn't, because it isn't any of your fucking business," Joe snapped back, focusing to glare at the uppity teenager.

"Then I guess I don't got no smokes." With that the private spun around and plopped back in his seat. Right. Fucking jeep jockeys. Bastard would probably miss a target the size of Texas if they let him have a rifle.

His attention was diverted when Sobel appeared again, holding a small box which he shoved under Joe's nose.

"Eat," he said, still sounding like he had an ax to grind. "It'll help slow the absorption of the pain pills."

Food? Joe looked down at the box. It was a meal kit, one of the better ones given to rear personnel that hadn't been sitting in the mud for weeks like the field rations he was used to.

What the fuck? What was Sobel up to? Was this going to be like the goddamn spaghetti incident? He could picture it – him stuffing himself then being force marched all the fucking way back to the airfield until he puked down the front of his uniform. It was fucking petty, but Sobel's voice still made Joe think he couldn't wait to see Joe suffer even more. He definitely wasn't being nice. Sobel didn't have a fucking ounce of compassion to piss out.

He looked back up at the Captain suspiciously, not moving to take the container.

Sobel lifted an eyebrow. "Something wrong, Liebgott?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Too bad." He dropped the box, letting it land on Joe's lap, and began walking around to the passenger side. "Captain Speirs might not be as forgiving as I am when you mouth off to him." As soon as he sat in the front seat Mott stepped on the gas and they shot forward, continuing east. Joe caught the box before it flew off his lap, watching his former CO. Waiting for the other shoe to drop and his punishment to become clear. Waiting for whatever ruse Sobel was pulling to break.

The Captain relaxed into the seatback and watched the little village fade back into trees. Behind them the trucks rumbled into gear to follow them. Mott was glimpsing at him in the rearview mirror but no one said anything else. Joe didn't trust himself to break the silence and looked at the meal kit again but left it untouched on his thighs.

Nothing else happened as they wound through more hills and specks of German civilization without stopping. The jeep was an immensely more comfortable ride from both the ability of Mott to maneuver around the worst of the damaged road and the upgraded shocks softening what bumps they couldn't miss. Despite this Joe couldn't relax. Goddammit. What was going on here? This was a fucking nightmare – Sobel being _reasonable._ Joe was already going crazy from the pills; was this just to make him psychotic with suspicion?

He sat frozen until sometime around midafternoon when Sobel suddenly sighed and looked back towards him, his expression as stony as ever. Joe stiffened under the sudden scrutiny, waiting for the worst.

"I've kept tabs on Easy," Sobel said in an unexpectedly relaxed tone that did not match his face and made him sound fucking…fucking _human_ or something. They hit a particularly rough patch of concrete in that moment and Joe felt the blood drain from his face as they dipped and crashed, but didn't blink. Sobel swayed with the rocking but still faced Joe. "I was sad to hear so many of the guys didn't make it."

He stopped, waiting for Joe to respond.

"…Yeah." Joe didn't know what fucking else to say. What did Sobel want here? Fucking details?

"Particularly Skip Muck. He was a good man," Sobel continued and Joe instantly felt his guard go up even higher. But Sobel just looked away, studying the passing forest. "I know you were close to him. It may not mean much, but I am sorry for your loss."

He turned to face forward again, leaving Joe to stare at him dumbfounded. Was this a fucking hallucination or something? Were those drugs making him see shit?

"You're what?" he asked the back of Sobel's head, baffled.

Sobel sent him another glance, but didn't turn around for a second time. "You should really eat, Liebgott. It'll help."

Another bad crater jostled them all and he suppressed the groan that tried to come out. Fucking Mott was looking at him again in the mirror, brows furrowed as if he was trying to do a goddamn math problem in his head or something. Joe fingered the lip of the carton in his lap, trying to judge what exactly was happening. Sobel was pure evil, but even he couldn't be low enough to try to manipulate Joe with the memories of the dead, could he? But why else would he bring it up? And express his damn _sympathies_ like he was a normal person? What was the end game? Mental torture? If that was it, though, saying he was sorry about what had happened to Easy wouldn't be the way to go about it. If he really wanted to get at Joe he would voice all the questions Joe had asked himself over the last year. _Why did you survive when the others didn't? Why couldn't you save them? What makes you think you deserve to live?_

Yet Sobel didn't, and with that thought circling around his head in an attempt to reassure himself that he wasn't making a huge mistake he opened the box and tore into the food inside.

As much as he hated to admit it, fucking Sobel was right. The haze was still there and the fatigue was still settled deep in his bones, but as the shitty rations landed in his empty stomach it started to ground him and felt himself slowly begin to lower down from the clouds.

A canteen appeared in the edge of his vision as he focused on the box. "Drink a lot of water too," Sobel told him, his expression still not implying that he gave a shit about what happened to Joe. Nevertheless Joe took it without a fight.

He was just finishing the chocolate bar in the pack when the private downshifted, passing a sign that read _Traunstein._ Taking a right at the next intersection, they rounded a bend and all of a sudden were smack in the middle of a giant fucking army encampment. Joe looked around, not see much of anything except for featureless green tents stretching up the hill of what used to be a cow pasture. A few soldiers lingered at the entrances, most of them more transport and supply men. The rest wore MP bands and Joe scowled before reaching for his bag, ready to hop out and disappear into the numerous turns and improvised paths of this place before his injuries gathered too much notice. It would probably be safer to try to find his next ride on the road rather than hang out here.

"Stay here, Liebgott," Sobel told him tersely, climbing out and walking away to shout orders before Joe could respond.

Oh, hell no… Joe looked after him, feeling the food climbing back up his throat. _This_ is what that fucker had planned. Everything finally fit together. The kindness, the meal – he just wanted Joe fucking cooperative on the drive to where he could be handed over to the goddamn MPs. _Joe, you are such a stupid moron._

"Son of a bitch," he growled, hauling up his bag and rising to his feet. For a split second his knees buckled, but he caught the seatback and pushed himself back up.

"Where are you going? The Captain said to wait!" Mott exclaimed, watching Joe try to negotiate himself over the side of the jeep.

"I'm not waiting to be arrested like some dumbass," Joe responded forcefully, finally finding purchase in the mud and hiking his bag back onto his shoulder.

"Why would you be arrested? What have you done?" Mott asked, his voice extremely fucking loud, for chrissakes.

"Keep it fucking down," Joe hissed, but it was too late. In the corner of his eye he could see one of the MP's lounging at the guard's booth near the entrance already looking at him interestedly and rising up to walk towards them. "Shit."

He turned, ready to disappear in the maze of tents, when Sobel suddenly materialized again, grabbing his uninjured arm to hold him in place. "Liebgott! I told you to stay in the jeep."

Joe roughly shook himself free and looked again at the advancing MP. "Why? So you could rat me out?"

"Watch your tone, Corporal," Sobel warned, his lips curling downward again. "What are you talking about?"

Joe didn't answer, only clenching his jaw hard as the MP came upon them. Fuck. He dropped the bag, ready to fight his fucking way out of here if it came down to it.

"Everything okay here, sir?" the MP questioned Sobel, keeping his gaze on Joe's ashy face. Joe clenched his fist. He felt Sobel shift his weight with realization as he looked between the two of them.

"Yes, Sergeant. Everything is fine," the Captain answered, drawing up his characteristic bored, condescending tone.

Hearing it, the MP straightened slightly as if he was affronted, but didn't fucking walk away. "Your man here seems to be injured. Do you need assistance in taking him to the aid station?"

"I'm fine," Joe retorted roughly, going to step forward. "And I'm not going fucking _anywhere._ "

Sobel grabbed his arm again and yanked him back. "No, Sergeant," he continued as if Joe hadn't spoken. "Like I said, I have this under control. You are dismissed."

The MP looked between them, clearly not wanting to leave it alone. But Sobel held rank, so with a nod and a "Yes, sir," he stepped away to head back to the booth, still looking back at them over his shoulder every few feet.

"I see your temper hasn't improved, Liebgott," Sobel scolded, shoving him back to the jeep. "Get in before I can't stop them from arresting you." He bent down to grab Joe's bag and throw it onto the seat once more.

"What is going on here, sir?" Joe leaned against the side of the vehicle more heavily than he wanted, but not climbing in. He couldn't take it anymore – the suspicion eating at him at the same time Sobel was acting all weird and _helpful._ "What sort of trick is this?"

From his position he could see Mott out of the corner of his eye, watching him like he lost his mind to talk to an officer like this.

Sobel pinched the bridge of his nose. "No trick, Liebgott. Just get in the damn car."

Joe stayed where he was. "Then tell me why. Because if we were back at Toccoa you would already be hauling me to the stockade yourself, or leaving me for fucking dead somewhere."

"Is that what you think?" Sobel jerked his eyes back up to Joe, clearly frustrated. "Is that what you think the reason I kept track of all of you after I was reassigned was? You think I hate you?"

"Well, I certainly had _twenty-four_ miles to think about it, so I may have some ideas," he shot back.

"You were a pain in the ass when you joined the company, Liebgott, all anger and impulsiveness – qualities that were going to get your head shot off as soon as you got here. That march was to give you an opportunity to learn about managing your reactions and make you think about the consequences so you would stop being so rash about your decisions."

Joe felt his jaw drop. "Oh, really? So the part about calling me a Kraut and Muck a cripple was just to keep the show up? Or the part about making Muck repeat the march and miss the jump and therefore his wings? Pardon me, _sir,_ but you are so full of shit. You _hated_ us."

The officer huffed, eyes flashing. "Nothing else was getting to you, Joe. Not the lost weekend passes, not the latrine duty. You wouldn't respond, but during the drills I could see it – you were an idiot out on the field and were constantly on the casualty list during the mock exercises. I would expect at this point you can vouch that impatience gets men killed out there –"

" _Or_ an Englishman's cows lost!" Joe was petulant now, the pain and drugs making him lose sight of the fucking _point_ of all this. Suddenly all the tension that had been building flooded through him and he just wanted to hurt Sobel – wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Sobel paused for a beat, his face carved from stone. "I… admit that I had my own weaknesses as a commander. Not bad enough for what ended up happening," he swallowed, a flare of bitterness crossing his expression. "But regardless, when Easy was mine I had the same strategy for everyone, but you were so blockheaded that I had to get resourceful. I would've made sure Muck made the jump, even if I had to throw him out of the plane myself. But I knew the implication would piss you off and it worked. After staying out all night you were much smarter in how you conducted yourself. So you got left alone."

He thought he had intimidated Sobel, but apparently he was just fucking putty in Sobel's goddamn hands. Joe set his chin and looked away, turning over what Sobel was telling him. Sure, Easy was the best fucking company in the Airborne, and, yes, Sobel's treatment had given Joe a certain skillset that he found useful in battle, but that didn't explain what a massive asshole he was the entire time. "That's all fine and dandy, but you didn't have to torture us. Winters' command hasn't reduced Easy's effectiveness and everyone happens to _like_ him."

"Being friendly would mean playing favorites," Sobel responded without skipping a beat, "especially in something as intensive as the training we did. And that would have destroyed unit cohesion. I would guess everyone likes Winters so much because he suffered alongside you under the _evil_ Captain Sobel. Speirs is just as competent of a leader, but I bet the NCOs wouldn't turn in their stripes over him. Why do you think that is? Because he wasn't there."

Joe continued to watch the men unloading the trucks as another silence filled the space between them. Mott watched unabashedly, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head at the fact that Sobel wasn't ripping Joe a new asshole for some reason. Joe still stayed against the jeep door, but wasn't coming up with anything to say to contradict this bullshit.

"I especially had to be careful with you," Sobel spoke again. "You were the only Jewish man in the company when it was all said and done. You and I both know the sort of shit that identity can bring. I didn't want anyone to think I had given you some sort of pass and that you weren't worthy of being among them. So, I may have been a little harder on you than the rest for that reason as well. But, you are still alive and I won't apologize for it. I'm glad you made it – and I hope it was it was at least partly for how you were trained."

Joe wasn't going to give in to the doubt that was swelling in his gut – doubt about what the events at Toccoa had meant and who Sobel was. He certainly wasn't going to _thank_ him or some shit, if that was what Sobel was wanting. Still, he thought of the coldness that gripped him when he was killing, coldness that made him methodical and calculating. Was he always like that? To be honest, it was hard to remember anything about who he was before this fucking war. He was always an _asshole_ , sure, and once he started using his fists to defend himself in school he thought he considered himself untouchable. Sobel's taunts hadn't bothered him and he could remember fucking around in the woods of Georgia, always somehow getting called out for being hit and being exasperated because of it. The march through the dark, alone except for his rankling rage and the infuriating impotence to do anything about it hadn't changed a thing other than make Sobel number one on Joe's shit list.

Yet, in morning afterward, as he was dragging himself into the field where the men were assembling for PT, he could still hear their words of encouragement at seeing him. Skip in particular hobbled over to meet him and give him a shoulder to lean on as he made it the rest of the way, all the time shouting to the others things like, " _This son of a bitch did it!"_ and _"Sobel is going to have to try harder to throw ol' Lieb out of here!"_

It was the first time anyone had given him a nickname that wasn't an insult. He recalled grinning at them, at the instant comradery he was given just by drawing the short straw of Sobel's hostility and withstanding it. By passing the test and showing that he wasn't a washout, he swiftly found himself initiated into the group of guys who also made it, finally talking to them about other things besides the superficial banalities of living in the barracks and being under Sobel's thumb. Instead, he was invited into their card games and had a seat saved for him in the mess hall. He was nudged and sent a wink when pretty women came into the bars they hung around on leave. He was included on the dirty jokes and good-natured shit they threw at one another. When his weekend pass got revoked someone stayed behind to keep him company. He became one of them.

With their embrace of him suddenly he wasn't alone any longer in the field exercises. Someone like Skip or Hoobler would be beside him, holding him back when he got impatient or covering his ass when he was exposed. He did for the same for them in return and by the time they sailed for England he didn't so much as aim his rifle without instantaneously sensing where they were and what he could do best to help them.

That's what ended up saving him. They did, apparently all because of fucking Sobel's intentional plotting.

"Son of a bitch." He pushed himself off the jeep, digging his boots into the wet ground. "I can't fucking believe this."

"I would expect that, but it's the truth," Sobel answered evenly. "Now get in the goddamn car if you want to get to Easy before the sun sets."

Joe sent another glower at the MP who was still watching them from afar and let out a huff before stepping up to get in. "Fine."

He really needed a cigarette, but he was even less hopeful now that he could get one as Mott continued to look at him with a strange expression and Sobel, a non-smoker, climbed back into the front seat and ordered them to head out. Fucking Christ.

As the drove down the path out of the gate Joe leaned forward, talking over the roar of the idling truck engines and shouting of men unloading the motorcycles. "You're wrong, you know."

Sobel sent him an annoyed look over his shoulder. "About what?"

"I'm still a fucking reckless idiot. You didn't change that about me."

Sobel eyed him longer this time, pointedly glancing at the sling. "Look at you Joe. I already know that."

A grim, humorless smile crossed Joe's lips as he leaned back, his mind traveling to a blonde woman, bloody and limp in his arms. "That's only the start of it, sir."


	45. Chapter 43

**Part Two of Joe's saga!**

* * *

 _"Juden… Juden…"_

 _"Jew. You're a Jew."_

 _" – what a fucking idiot you've been and how well she's played you –"_

 _"Liebgott. Fucking Hebrew name –"_

 _"Please, I beg of you, don't kill me –"_

 _"You're_ here."

 _"Forgive."_

 _"I'm sorry, Joe."_

He felt himself flinging backwards, sucking air into his lungs like it was his dying breath. " _Fuck!"_

His body under the bandages exploded with agony, blazing across his nerves, and he gripped at his shoulder, instinctively curling forward into his own lap defensively.

"Liebgott! Joe!" He faintly heard Sobel calling for him, but was too focused on trying to take a second breath to answer. His shirt was soaked and his hair stuck to his forehead. His palm felt wet and when he pulled it away it was dotted with blood. A hand landed on his other shoulder and he was pushed back, cringing and panting.

They were stopped. He was still in the backseat, with Sobel and Mott standing in the road by him, staring at him like they had seen a ghost.

"What…" his voice failed and he panted some more. "What happened?"

Sobel recovered first, leaning over to move the sling and pull down Joe's collar to take a look at the slowly creeping red stain. "You were sleeping, but all of a sudden you threw yourself into the back of Mott's seat and tried to grab at him. If I hadn't shoved you away you would've crashed us."

His chest was still heaving, pulling at the wound with every rapid rise and fall. It hurt like a motherfucker and he swallowed, looking away from Sobel's hands peeling back the bandages and towards the blue sky.

"This is a fucking bullet hole, Liebgott." Sobel blew out a harsh breath, pulling away to fix Joe with a familiar, furious stare. "I thought it was some shrapnel or something. What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting back to Easy, sir," he gulped, still looking up and trying his damnedest to control the pain.

"Easy will still be around when you are fully healed. If I had known how bad you were I would have sent you straight back to England. How the hell did you get out in the first place? It couldn't have been under your own power."

"I'm not going back." Sickness swirled in his stomach and he felt dizzy.

"That isn't your choice to make." Sobel was sounding like his old self again and Joe glared daggers at a flock of birds crossing overhead.

"I'm not. You try to do that and I will just go AWOL again and start over."

"Oh, really? Do you think I can't see to it that you won't set foot in this country again unless it's landing in a Pan Am as a civilian?"

"I'll take that risk." He rolled his head back down, going to pick at the bandages himself. "If you want me to walk from here, I will. I just need to get this changed."

"Goddammit, Liebgott, the war is over. Easy can wait –"

" _She_ can't wait." he retorted, distracted by the bloody gauze he was pulling from his skin.

"She? _What?_ Who the hell is _she_?"

Joe froze, about to toss the soiled bandage away. Shit.

"Answer me, Liebgott. Are you telling me this entire situation is about you getting back to some girl?"

He wasn't going to confirm it, but denying it would be such a clear lie that instead he just didn't respond, pulling his bag up beside him to look for the antiseptic and bandages.

Sobel leapt across him and pulled the bag out of his grip. "You are not fucking getting out of the jeep, Joe. I can't believe this – you went AWOL half dead just to call on some girl? What the hell is the matter with you?"

"She isn't _some girl_. She's –" He snapped his mouth back closed, silently fuming. Blood started to trickle down his chest.

"She's who? The only way you are going to dig your way out of this, Liebgott, is if you tell me the truth."

Joe sighed and ran his hand over his face. Sobel didn't move, waiting for a fucking explanation.

"Okay, fine," he eventually bit out. "Did you hear about me getting trapped behind enemy lines last spring?"

Sobel crossed his arms over his chest. "I heard when you were listed as MIA, yes."

Joe stared at the back of the driver's seat, reluctantly continuing. "It took me a week to get back. While I was stuck I stayed with this woman. I was injured – shrapnel to my side – and got a fever. She saw me through it and hid me in her cellar."

He paused to see if that would be enough to appease the officer. Sobel stayed where he was, staring at Joe expectantly. Son of a bitch. He exhaled again. "She was a member of the Nazi Party, but it was something that … she was forced into. Anyway, we were discovered so I took her with me when I escaped back across the line to keep her safe. She was supposed to stay in the rear, but then… then…." He glowered at the seat. "We found Kaufering."

"Kaufering," Sobel echoed, tilting his head downward in recognition of that name.

Joe felt his fingers digging into his thigh as he burned a hole through the seatback with his eyes. "Yes and, fuck me, I found – I don't know. I just lost it. I knew she was a Party member, and so I took her back to the line and left her there, in the fucking woods without… anything. She ended up going home and they arrested her for helping me. When I eventually realized what the hell I had done I got information on where they were keeping her. Captain Nixon wanted her for intelligence, so Winters let us plan a mission to get her. By the time I found her they had beaten her so badly…" He stopped again, his gaze dropping to his lap and the muscles of his jaw burning.

Is that where you got shot? This mission?" Sobel asked.

Joe took another breath and raised his head in answer. "I passed out, but Malarkey and the others got us back. I woke up in England a couple of days ago, just to find that she has been in some sort of _prison_ for being a Nazi all this time." He rubbed his face roughly and looked back towards the Captain. "She doesn't speak a word of English. What if she can't figure out what is going on to defend herself? Who knows what they are going to do to her? I need to be there to explain what happened before they fucking send her to a firing squad or something. I already failed her one goddamn time. I'm not going to do it again. So, please, just let me take my bag and go."

Sobel looked at Joe for a long time. Mott hung behind him, also considering Joe but with a weirdly sheepish expression. Joe ignored him.

"You are a stupid son of a bitch, you know that, Joe?" Sobel finally said.

"I'm not proud of what I did," Joe came back defensively. "If you had been at Kaufering –"

"I'm not talking about that." Sobel ripped open the bag. "I'm talking about why you just didn't tell me this from the start and saved us all a lot of time." He yanked out the bandages and antiseptic. "Pull down your collar."

"You mean – you're going to…" Joe looked at the hardass Captain with bafflement.

"Take you the rest of the way? Yes. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's because I'm amazed you managed to charm a woman with that shitty disposition of yours and I want to see how it plays out. Maybe I just don't want to have to deal with you all the way back to Traunstein. Either way, when you get there you can tell everyone in Easy that, contrary to popular opinion, I am a _nice guy_ , got it?"

Despite everything Joe found himself suddenly relaxing with relief, the tight band weaving though him releasing as he observed the dark-haired man opening the antiseptic. "Yes, sir."

* * *

"What the fuck is this?"

Malarkey's eyes bugged out of his head and he dropped the basketball he was holding as Mott drove the jeep up to Easy's headquarters.

"Well, I'll be damned," Bull added, picking up the ball when it rolled towards him and tossing it to the side. "Is that Lieb?"

"The fucking one and only," Joe called over to them, grabbing his bag and unsteadily standing as Mott came to a stop.

Sobel watched them approach, his mask back in place. "Sergeant Malarkey. Sergeant Randleman," he greeted with an uninterested tone and blank face. Joe hid the involuntary twitch of his lips by turning to precariously scramble out.

Both men immediately stood at attention. "Captain Sobel, sir," Malarkey answered formally.

Joe looped his bag back on his shoulder and moved to stand next to them. Sobel's black eyes flickered over to him and he shifted on his feet, biting his tongue. What the fuck was he supposed to say now? _I appreciate you_ _not being a complete jerk? Nice to see you aren't a total asshole after all?_ He supposed he should thank Sobel for all that happened, but the action seemed so unnatural that the words froze in his throat even though he knew what he had to do. He hadn't forgotten, even if she probably hadn't meant people like Sobel. Fucking _forgive._

His damn mother sure didn't make her demands easy ones. She was going to get an earful if they ever met again.

"I appreciate the lift, sir," he said carefully, his tongue fumbling with the strangeness of what he was saying. "…Thanks."

Sobel nodded once. "Sure, Corporal." He looked back to the sergeants. "Good to see you men made it. You are dismissed."

"Thank you, sir," Bull replied and they both instantly broke away to get the hell away from their old CO before whatever was possessing him passed and he started yelling at them like the old days. Joe went to trail after them when he heard the Captain call out his name one more time. Turning back, he saw Sobel looking down at his hands as they hung off the edge of the jeep door, clearly turning something over in his head.

"I never went to Kaufering," he began quietly, making Joe step closer to hear him better. "Or any of the camps, but I saw the pictures…" He paused, clearing his throat and drawing his arms back to his lap while meeting Joe's gaze once more. "What happened to them – our people…" His expression fell slightly in what seemed like grief and he looked down again for another second to study the gravel. "I'm glad you were there to help them. Cut yourself some slack about it. You wouldn't be human if you hadn't reacted the way you did. If it had been me –" He stopped, taking a deep breath and looked back up. "Anyway, good luck with everything."

Out of the corner of his eye Joe could see Malarkey watching them, damn near pissing himself at the exchange. He dipped his head at Sobel in return. "Thank you, sir."

* * *

"You know, I distinctly remember saying to you at one time something along the lines of 'you are lucky this didn't get infected.' Do you remember that by chance, Liebgott? Do you?"

"Yeah, Doc."

"Then explain to me why you are showing up in a completely _different_ country than you should be in with your _new_ injury all torn up? Do you have a death wish? Or are you just trying to annoy me?"

"It isn't that bad, Roe. Sobel said just a couple of stitches had popped out from the exit wound."

"That's something else we gotta talk about, Lieb," Malarkey muttered from his other side. "Not only how fucking ridiculous you are, but how you roped Sobel into helping you and fucking turning him into your best goddamn friend at some point."

Roe paused from pulling out the broken stitches. "Sobel?"

Joe let his head fall back on the cot pillow. "Yeah, he isn't so bad, it turns out."

"Oh my God." Malarkey rubbed his face and looked upwards like he was sending a silent prayer. "How much fucking morphine did you give him, Roe? Because I think I am going goddamn crazy."

"Not enough, but you and me both can't be hearing things. Guess Sobel has a kind bone somewhere in 'im." Roe threaded a suture needle. "Let me know if it hurts, Liebgott, and I'll give you another syrette."

Joe nodded and they fell silent while Roe went to work cleaning up the mess in his chest. He looked at Malark, not particularly eager to see a needle going through his skin again. "Where is Nixon?"

"He'll be here soon," the sergeant replied, watching Roe's hands with his arms crossed in front of him. "Gonorrhea and Toye told you I was working on figuring what was happening to her, Joe. You shouldn't have gone AWOL. You look like you are about to be six feet under."

"They also said that Nixon wanted to talk about her when I was awake. I'd rather hear it from the horse's mouth about what the fuck is going on. Do you know where she is?"

"Somewhere in Munich. She's being evaluated to see if she should be sent to Nuremberg."

"Nuremberg?"

Malark sighed and turned to spat on the ground. "Where the Nazi leadership is being tried for war crimes. What is left of it, anyway."

"Goddammit," Joe hissed between his teeth. "How the fuck could this have happened? He had her goddamn file. Jesus Christ, he didn't say a fucking word when we were planning the mission that she was going to be a fucking POW. I'm going to fucking –"

"You don't look like you are in much of a position to do anything, Liebgott," a new voice called across the medical tent. Joe's head whipped around and he spied Nixon coming up behind Roe. "Jesus, Joe, don't tell me you hitchhiked all the way from England. Caroline isn't in any danger."

"Well, from what I've been told about some sort of fucking trial for war crimes, sir, I'd have to disagree."

Nixon gave Joe that little smirk that always made it look like he was laughing at his own private joke. "As soon as Roe is finished here I'll explain everything." He eyes swept over Joe's prostrate body. "…If you don't die first. God, you look worse than my uncle Albert, Liebgott, and he's been buried for eight years."

"He needs to go back to the hospital," Roe muttered.

"I'm not going _back,_ " he growled at them. "Just patch me up and I'll be on my way to Munich."

"You've _have_ lost your mind!" Malarkey exclaimed, pointing at Joe. "Forget about traveling any more today, Joe. You are on bed rest until further notice."

"Don't try to stop me, Malark."

"That's an order, Liebgott. You are going to stay here even if I have to babysit you myself. Either cooperate or I will have you shipped back across the Channel."

"Give me a break –"

"I'm not kidding around Lieb. Even if Sobel thinks otherwise you are in no condition to go anywhere." He glared at Joe and Joe stared right back, his eyes bright and hot. The silence between them froze the air and Roe pulled the needle away, waiting to see if Joe was going to try to leap off the cot and have it out with the NCO.

"You are staying put, Joe," Nixon confirmed with an air of finality. "Now, there are more important questions need to be answered. Number one: Did you say Sobel was here?"

"Unfortunately," Malarkey answered. "I think he's already left. He was just giving Joe a ride."

Nixon chuckled. "Oh, that's rich. Like Sobel would do any of us a favor."

"Apparently that doesn't apply to Lieb here."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Come on, is it really that big of a deal? He did it for Popeye."

"But Popeye isn't a huge ass," Malarkey countered. "You, admittedly, are."

"Whatever," Joe grumbled from the cot. "Fuck all you guys. I'm going to Munich."

"Exhibit A!" Malark announced, throwing his hands up in vexation.

Above him, Roe chuckled and went back to sewing.

* * *

"I didn't know that she was going to be detained."

Joe looked up from where he had been leaning over, his elbow on his knee and his fingers running through his hair as he stared vacantly at the ground. Nixon sat across from him, bent at well and fiddling with his open canteen. The morphine Roe had given him was wearing off and with every breath the pain in his chest was magnifying, but he didn't ask for more. He wanted to be clearheaded for this conversation.

Night had fallen outside. Malarkey had finally left him alone with the warning that he would be back as soon as Nixon was done. The medical tent was empty except for a mumbling private laid out on the other side. He had gotten wasted on some sort of bootleg potato wine and now vomited his guts into a bucket beside him every few minutes, but was too out of it to pay any attention to the world around him.

"When she was brought to the aid station at headquarters I sent notice up my chain of command to let Sink and OSS know we had an intelligence operative in custody. Standard procedure." He look a large gulp of what Joe safely assumed was not water. "While you two were being transferred to the field hospital my orders came back down. She was to be held as a POW pending further investigation. They knew she was a Nazi and concluded there was not enough evidence to assume that she could automatically be vindicated."

Joe dropped his hand, pressing his lips together. "Not enough? What the fuck else do they want? It was all there in her file in black and white."

"That's just it, Joe. Everyone is saying the same thing. They were just following orders. They were forced into doing the things they did. They didn't know what was going on. They were fooled." He sighed, taking a second drink. "The first thing Göring did in interrogation was ask, 'What concentration camps?' His compatriot, Karl Dönitz, is claiming he had no choice but to follow Hitler's commands."

"That's bullshit. Have you seen her, sir? You tell me if she came across as someone complicit or not."

"How she looks certainly helps her case, but we have photos and newsreels of her engaging in anti-Sematic activities. No one is holding a gun to her head in those, Joe. They are just making sure that a thorough investigation is done. Like I said, this isn't a tribunal yet."

A low groan crossed the tent and the private bent towards the bucket again. Joe shot him an annoyed look as he straightened, pushing his hair off his forehead. "So what now? How can I get to Munich?"

"Get some rest and I'll take you up there after a staff meeting I have in the morning. It's about a two hour drive, so we should get there in the early afternoon. We need to get you in with her lawyer so you can tell him what you observed while you were hiding. He'll probably have you testify in her defense. I'm honestly not sure if he has any other witnesses besides you." Nixon focused on a spot past Joe's shoulder, his dark brows lowering as he thought. "It would probably help for you to talk to her as well."

Joe drew back, absently adjusting the sling. "What makes you think that won't be the first fucking thing I do?"

"No, that's not what I mean." Nixon shook his head and let out a breath. "I saw her only once in France, when I was on leave, and not again until she was transferred to a hospital in Austria a couple of months later. I was there during her interrogation and I watch the inquiry proceedings in Munich when I can… She is just… she doesn't look good, Joe."

Joe instantly tensed, tilting forward again. "What do you mean? Malark said she was fine. What's wrong?"

The officer gave a slight shrug, still looking somewhat unsettled, and took another sip. "It's hard to describe. I think you'll understand when you see her. Physically, she is healing well according to the doctors, but mentally… I don't know."

His shoulder gave a sharp twinge but he ignored it. "Tell me."

"Well," Nixon glanced at the wretching Private and lowered his voice, "you remember how Buck was in Bastogne? After Toye and Guarnere were hit?"

He thought of the blonde man, once so gregarious and loud, sitting in the snow and staring unblinkingly in the middle distance. Ice blue eyes wide and consumed with something Joe couldn't see. Trembling hands and a mouth that wouldn't answer when Lipton came over to ask if he was alright. A frozen statue, paralyzed by the torment that rained down on them all.

"It reminds me of that," Nixon continued. "Combat fatigue. She just looks… empty. She doesn't participate in her defense. She hardly ever speaks. In the courtroom it seems like she is completely indifferent to what is going on. When she was in Austria and questioned about what she had done her answers were so unemotional they sounded rehearsed, despite the horrible details she was confirming for us about what the Nazis had done. It was frustrating to hear, especially because on paper she comes across as a victim. After listening to her answers, I wouldn't have been surprised if they decided to send her to an inquiry even if her file had _'kidnapped and brainwashed'_ stamped in red all over it."

Something sharp and dreadful sank into Joe's stomach. Both he and Nixon knew what that meant – the unemotional detachment, the apathetic, mechanical motions of just living when everything became too much. "She's – she's given up?"

Nixon looked grim. "I don't know, Joe. Whatever is happening, though, isn't helping her. She isn't thrilled when confronted with the evidence of her activities, but she isn't showing remorse either. She isn't acting like someone who was tortured into serving the Nazis, and from what I heard the presiding officers who decide what happens are putting a lot of weight into the demeanor of those accused. I'm concerned, and I'm hoping seeing you will snap her out of it." He looked down at the canteen he was still holding. "Although, you should know, I did tell her that you were alive while we were in France. I thought it would be a relief for her."

Joe felt his heart knock painfully as Nixon didn't look back up. "She didn't move an eyelash to show she felt anything about that news. She did ask me a question, but my German is worthless. When I couldn't answer she just went back to staring at the ceiling like nothing had happened. It was disconcerting, especially after what I had gleaned about your relationship with her."

"Shit," Joe breathed, rubbing his forehead. This was bad – he hadn't seen a guy yet who came back from just being fucking… mentally comatose. "Look, I don't know what happened after that Mueller guy arrested her, but whatever it was it left her…" He lowered his hand and felt his shoulders rise with the tightening of his muscles. "When I entered the room to rescue her she thought I was another German soldier. She asked me to fucking… fucking kill her." His eyes suddenly burned, but when he closed them all he could see was her bloody, swollen face. "I didn't get a chance to talk to her much before shit hit the fan, but…"

 _Just do it. Please._

The burning was getting worse. His lungs stuck to his ribs, robbing him of breath. The relentless and smothering guilt tightened around his neck, choking him with the knowledge that if it hadn't been for him she would've stayed safe and happy _._ He remembered what he thought when he saw her in that camp: he had destroyed her because he couldn't control his temper. Because he decided that he was the judge and jury and _left_ her there to fend for herself when there were nothing but demons in the shadows waiting to get her alone. And it – it – she was… damaged. Now, because of what he did. She had survived everything but his betrayal.

His chin dropped to his chest, hiding his face from Nixon. He tried to breathe through the sudden tightness, the sudden strangulation, of his own blame. "F-Fuck."

"Joe, don't do this," Nixon said from somewhere beyond his screwed shut lids. A hand squeezed his good shoulder. "She's gonna be alright. I just wanted to warn you."

"It's all my fault." The words didn't sound like his own and he didn't feel his lips move to make them. But the truth was startlingly clear and hammered into him with a force that tried to knock him flat on his back. She said she loved him during the firefight, didn't she? She didn't hate him. She didn't resent him for what he had done.

But what if…

What if she had changed her mind? Months of being in hospitals or wherever they are keeping her now, with apparently nothing to do but think of how horrible he was and how unforgivable his actions were. Perhaps she had come to her senses and realized that whatever they had died that night in the woods when he held a fucking _gun_ to her head then deserted her to be tortured by the men who haunted her nightmares.

She didn't care that he was alive.

She was out of his reach, gone from him forever like he always knew could happen, what _should_ happen given how he had treated her.

"Get some sleep," Nixon told him and he heard the squeak of the opposite cot as the captain stood. "I'll come get you in the morning."

Joe didn't acknowledge him as he left, nor did he answer Malarkey's greeting when the sergeant came back.

He didn't move for hours, sunk into the bottomless misery of how he had crushed the one person he loved.

* * *

"Did he get any sleep?" Nixon was asking Malarkey as Joe stumbled towards the jeep in a trance, not looking at either of them. He missed Malarkey's soft response and didn't care, settling into the front passenger seat to stare out the windshield aimlessly. He hadn't gotten any sleep. His shoulder pulsed with every beat of his heart. Caroline hated him.

"Joe, I've got something to give you." Malarkey had walked over to him and was patting him on the shoulder to get his attention. He was holding a worn leather bag at his side that looked faintly familiar and Joe blearily stared at it.

 _Caroline's bag._

He was reaching for it before he could stop himself, wordlessly taking it from the red head and pulling it onto his lap. Yes, it was hers. His eyes were stinging again. His fingers trembled as he went for the latch.

"They didn't think you were coming back from England so I had to clean out your footlocker. I remembered it from the night you two crossed the line and thought she would probably want it back. Shit like that would disappear as soon as I gave it to a mail clerk, so I have been saving it."

His mouth was dry and he tried to move his tongue to talk. "Thanks, Malark," he heard himself whisper. The latch clicked and he lifted the flap open.

They were still there, on top of a ball of clothes. The watch. The comb. The broach. The only three things that she had left.

He focused on breathing. In and out. In and out.

"It'll be alright, Joe. Your stubborn ass has made it this far so just stay steady, whatever happens." Malark leaned in, speaking lowly in his ear so no one else heard. "Winters has been trying to get the D-Day veterans out of the fight if Easy gets sent to the Pacific. I'm being transferred to France to help train the replacements. If you need a place to go when all this settles down that doesn't involved getting shot at drop me a letter. I can get the transfer approved; they are desperate for veterans to train the rookies almost as much as they are to have them on the front line."

A place to go. Without her. A place to hide and lick his wounds when she inevitably shut him out. The offer was a kindness on Malarkey's part, but Joe was pretty sure if that is what ended up happening he wouldn't mind the Japanese having a go at him.

Going back to battle meant going back to feeling nothing but bloodlust and the unsympathetic isolation of death. It would be a familiar iciness that would keep him going, at least for a little while.

He carefully closed the bag and nodded. Malarkey watched him with a pained expression that made Joe think he knew Joe's train of thought before holding out his hand. "I'll see you, Joe. It's been an adventure and I'm glad I had you fighting beside me."

"Likewise, Malark. Good luck in France," he croaked with the sudden closing of his throat, squeezing and shaking the sergeant's hand. He was going to miss the Irish bastard. He managed a weak smile. "Give them hell. I hear running up mountains is good training."

Malark snorted and smiled back. "I'll consider it."

"Ready to go?" Nixon rejoined them, opening the door to the driver's side.

Joe dropped his hand and Malarkey took a step back. "Drive safely, sir," he told Nixon, dipping his head in Joe's direction one more time before turning to go back into the medical tent. As they pulled away Joe slumped in his seat and took in the road stretching out in front of them as they left the town, at the end of which was her.

* * *

 _And now here he was._

Standing there, it felt like all the blood had drained to his feet. Looking up at her, beaming through the picture as though she lit the fires of the crematoriums herself, he was cemented into place, his thoughts stuttering and starting before going blank completely with the faceless pain he wished he didn't know so well.

The door shut softly behind him and he blinked, suddenly registering the loss of her presence and her fading scent on the air. Where did she go? What happened? Why was it so hard to fucking _think?_

He knew how he got to be like this and knew exactly why it felt like he was sunk in a bowl of molasses that made it hard to move his limbs and impossible to figure how he should respond to the sight of her in uniform and-and… hating him. Hating his kind.

The Star of David, marked through like an abhorrent piece of trash, disappeared and he was staring at a blank wall with his shock and surprise still twisting his face. Behind his eyes he could still see it though, and part of him waited for that rage to emerge again. The rage that destroyed everything last time and now made him afraid that he was going to finally light the remnants of what they could salvage on fire. Finishing it completely once and for all.

He swayed, maybe more dangerously than it felt for Nixon instantly was at his elbow, steadying him with a helpful hand. His chest felt like acid was burning through him and his skull felt like it was cracking, opening up and letting his brains spill out.

"Was that necessary, Private?" Nixon snapped at the man still working at the projector. "How about you wait until the room is empty before you go tampering with the evidence?"

"Sorry, sir," came the anxious reply. "I am just inventorying for tomorrow. I didn't mean to turn it on."

Nixon pulled at Joe, who still stared at the blank space she had been. "Come on, Joe. Let's get you looked at."

He couldn't figure out how to respond and Nixon led him away. The hallway was loud and bustling compared to the stifling silence of the room and he found himself trying to look at the people around him, hoping that maybe she was waiting and maybe she hadn't tried to run away from him.

That's what she did. She told him no and ran away.

She told him she loved him the last time she saw him but now she _ran away._

New pictures of what she had been. New salt to rub in his wounds. He was right about everything. It was over.

Was he angry? The savage part of him that still stalked in the black corners of his fraying mind told him that he had every right to be, that what he had felt after finding Kaufering was justified and was righteous. It shouted and railed against the unfairness of this all and the frustration of finding a woman to love who was at times frighteningly indistinguishable from the enemy he spent the last year killing.

But he _knew_ the truth now – at least parts of it. That complicated truth that was both her vindication and his damnation. So why was he still here, unable to move or comprehend how ugly this reality was? _That's_ was really what made his blood boil – that the world was the way it was and how heartlessly it threw the two of them together to somehow make sense of the great divide opened between them and by some means build a bridge to cross it. Yes, if he was angry it wasn't at her. Not anymore. It was at this situation, this seemingly bottomless canyon they straddled, staring helplessly at each other as every fucking situation and person that came between them just dug to make it deeper. It was the hopelessness and powerlessness that grew the farther she slipped away from him and left him holding nothing but empty air.

But that didn't stop him from staring, slack-jawed, at the image of who she had been and how deeply she was involved in a regime he helped destroy. That certainly didn't stop her from looking at him like he was going to rip her heart in two and shove the pieces in her face. Like he was going to pull out a Luger once more and use it to execute her right in the middle of the room.

She didn't trust him and if he were in her shoes he wouldn't either.

"Joe!" A hand waved in front of his face and he came to, seeing Nixon looking at him worriedly. The jeep idled in front of them, a private now at the wheel. "You shouldn't have made the trip, Lieb," Nixon told him forcefully, still holding on to his arm. "She is fine and nothing was going to happen to her. You'll never forgive yourself if this is what kills you after all these months."

Joe wanted to argue. He wanted to say that every second being away from her was almost as agonizing as every second was when he was _with_ her. But instead his head swung unstably on his neck and he mechanically got into the car. As they pulled away he found himself leaning forward until his forehead hit his knees.

Munich had the shit bombed out of it and he was forced to take more painkillers as they had approached the city and the road steadily deteriorated. He wasn't reckless enough to take as many as he did the previous day, but the dose he did take combined with his exhaustion and shock had him silent as they drove somewhere, Nixon muttering something about promising Roe that he was not going to let Joe keel over.

He barely paid attention, picturing her face over and over. She was dismayed – no, _horrified –_ that he was there. She looked at him like he was her worst nightmare and pulled away as if his touch hurt her.

 _What the hell did you expect?_

He had insisted that they go directly to the building where the inquiries were being held. Once they were there – in the same city as she was – he couldn't wait any fucking longer. He had to know, had to lay eyes on her and judge how true Nixon's warning was. It was worse than he imagined. Seeing her bent over, body heaving with uncontrolled coughs, her fingers digging into her scalp, as everyone rushed out of there as quickly as they could… it made his stomach twist and turn with feelings he couldn't name. Coming upon her he was reminded of the last time they were like this: her collapsed in pain, him hovering uncertainly behind her trying to figure out how to tell her he was there and worried all the same how she would react. He finally choked out her name. But this time she wasn't eager to see him.

He felt the muscles of her forearm tighten again as she pulled away from him, the bandage hiding Henrich's handiwork growing red. Heard her strained " _Nein"_ burrow into his eardrums. _No._ No what? Not him? Not now? Not _ever?_

He pressed his face into the bones of his knees. His shoulder shifted uncomfortably as the sling was sandwiched against his lap.

Nixon was talking.

"You just surprised her, that's all. She is doing well, but she isn't fully recovered. Her lungs are going to have scarring from the pneumonia and she is going to have those coughing fits for a while. You caught her at a weak moment, Joe. Next time it will be better."

"How?" The word was plaintive and desperate against his legs.

"Give her some time to process this. She didn't know you were coming. You need some time too, Joe. You are running on fumes and its showing. That stupid picture threw you for a loop and you will be better able to handle this once you get some rest."

He rose back up, directing his bloodshot eyes to look out at the passing neighborhood. Most of the buildings were burnt shells slowly being demolished by work crews. Civilians were everywhere, walking and talking like nothing fucking happened at all. Only a few paused to watch the demolition taking place, haunted looks on their faces. One man in particular, old and leaning on a cane, turned his head from watching an apartment block being torn down to scrutinize them as they drove by. His eyes were dark and wet and Joe found himself turning away, suddenly feeling like he was intruding.

"Where is she being held?" he asked.

"A hotel that escaped most of the bombings has been turned into a dormitory. She isn't in a cell – I hear the accommodations are quite comfortable."

That was some consolation. A cigarette appeared in front of him and his pale hand shakily took it and Nixon's subsequent offer of a light. The smoke felt good and stilled some of the trembling that gripped his muscles.

Nixon wasn't shutting up. "You two have been through a lot together. She would probably be dead if it wasn't for you. That means something, Joe. Just be patient and don't blame yourself for what happened to her. You weren't the one who tortured her. You weren't the one who put her in that program. You got her out of there."

 _That doesn't make me innocent._ He didn't voice this and only sucked on the cigarette as a hospital came into view.

* * *

The indignation of the examining nurse reminded him of Roe.

"Where were you before this? Did they discharge you? You shouldn't be upright, let alone walking around!" she exclaimed as she pulled off the bandages and tossed them on top of the discarded sling.

"Can you just fix it so I can go?" he told her flatly, feeling cold sitting shirtless on the cot.

"Go where, Liebgott?" Nixon leaned against the doorframe of the room he had been taken to. "Caroline will still be there tomorrow. I'll make sure you stay in Munich. Just answer the nurse's questions."

Joe didn't react, keeping his gaze on the floor. "I was in England. I went AWOL."

"Why?" the nurse asked.

His kneejerk reaction was a sharp _"Does it matter?"_ but he couldn't muster the energy so he just closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. "It's personal."

"When was the last time the dressings were changed?"

"Last night."

"The exit wound looks like it has fresh sutures."

"I tore the old ones yesterday."

The nurse clucked her tongue. "We are going to get you started on antibiotics before an infection takes hold. The exit wound is looking inflamed. The important thing is, however, that you get some rest."

Again, he wanted to shove her away and make for the door. But instead he found himself unable to open his eyes and telling her, "Fine."

He heard Nixon make a surprised noise.

As the nurse cleaned and rewrapped his chest he didn't move. He felt hands guiding him back onto something soft and he didn't fight them.

He didn't have any fight left.

* * *

"Joe! Wake up!"

Joe jerked, earning him a dull throb from his chest, and yanked his eyes open. As his pupils slowly focused he saw that he was on his back, still on the cot where the nurse had examined him.

Nixon threw something soft that landed in his lap. A fresh uniform. "Get your ass up and take a shower. You reek like you've been in a foxhole for a month."

He slowly sat up, blinking groggily in at the lowering sun coming through the window. "What time is it?"

"Technically, it is six PM. However, if your question is how long you have been sleeping, the answer is about twenty six hours."

He squinted at the Captain. "What?"

"You been asleep for over a day. Didn't even move when they checked on you. You haven't developed a fever so they are letting me take you out of here. Get a move on before they change their minds." Nixon impatiently gestured towards the small bathroom across from Joe.

Joe looked confusedly around the room again. Twenty six hours? He slept that fucking long? His chest felt better. His mind seemed to be moving more smoothly. But twenty six fucking hours?

He licked his lips. They felt dry and cracked. "Where are we going?"

Nixon raised an eyebrow. "Where do you think? I've set up a meeting with her and her lawyer in an hour."

Picking the clothes off his thighs and moving them onto the mattress, he carefully swung his legs around until his feet were on the floor. His hair felt like it was sticking straight up and he ran a hand through it before rubbing his eyes. "She doesn't want to see me, sir. I'm not sure if this is a good idea."

An ache that had nothing to do with his injury settled in his chest. He couldn't go through seeing her again if she was going to react the same way. He couldn't cause her more pain, or deal with his own.

"Nonsense." Nixon wasn't in the mood for any bullshit. "You dragged yourself all the way here and I'm not going to let you sit around moping."

"You don't understand, sir. I can't –" his voice broke off and he ground his teeth together.

"She was looking for you today, in the courtroom. Have some hope, Liebgott. And take a goddamn shower. The nurse said to remind you to not get the bandages wet. I'll be back in twenty minutes and you better be ready to go or I am going to find the ugliest orderly I can to give you a sponge bath." He shot Joe a look that said he wasn't kidding before disappearing, leaving him looking at the empty hall.

"Shit," he muttered, looking down at his still-bare chest and new sling. How the hell was he supposed to bathe with all this crap?

"Eighteen minutes!" Nixon yelled from somewhere, his voice bouncing off the polished tile.

"I got it!" he hoarsely called back, grumbling more obscenities as he hoisted himself to his feet.

The "shower" in the bathroom consisted of little more than a drain in the floor and a malfunctioning hose that spurted water that never got warmer than tepid. The only luxuries the Army seemed fit to provide were a comb and a new bar of soap that was wrapped in paper by the sink. Through pure luck and a few _fuck yous_ directed at the hose he managed to get himself reasonably clean without ripping anything or soaking his right side.

He maneuvered into the boxers and pants, but was going to need Nixon's to help with the t-shirt and uniform shirt. His vision still seesawed unsteadily with his movements and he caught himself against the sink to wait for his equilibrium to return.

His face was pale and thin in his reflection, making the scar on his neck appear red and puffy. The sight of it made him automatically run his hand over the skin just under his ribs, feeling the slight puckering from the stitches she had given him. It had scarred over as well while he was in his coma and as his fingers danced over it he thought again of how slim his chances had been of staying alive. He still didn't know why he was chosen to live while so many others weren't. Why he was left with a collection of flesh wounds while better men lost limbs. Why he wasn't standing a few more inches to the left so that fragment of the potato masher could've taken his head clean off. Why that German civilian hadn't aimed just a little lower and shot him through the heart. Why his feet veered off course just as the tank shrapnel flew towards him and therefore missed severing his spine. Why Caroline nursed him back to health even though he was just another soldier threatening her life.

He bent closer to the mirror until his nose was almost touching the glass. His eyes were partially sunken into his skull to give him a moribund appearance. They weren't as enflamed as he predicted, probably from all the sleep, but were still red-rimmed and seemed…

Broken.

He jerked back, ripping his eyes away, and found the comb. He pulled it through his hair without looking at himself again. Grabbing the shirts, he turned and left the bathroom and the troubled man he saw behind.

* * *

"We are meeting her at the dormitory," Nixon told him as he drove their vehicle through the darkening streets. The streetlamps still hadn't been fixed so night sunk around them like a black veil, dissolving the abandoned, damaged buildings and making the few pedestrians still out no more than flashes in the jeep's headlights. "Her lawyer doesn't speak German, so I don't know if she knows who she is meeting with."

"She can't talk to her own lawyer?" he murmured, watching the beams of the headlights pass over a partially collapsed school as Nixon turned a corner. "How is he defending her then?"

"I'm not sure yet. He doesn't present his case until next week."

He took a drag of the cigarette Nixon had given him to calm his nerves, frowning. "No wonder she isn't talking."

Nixon grunted. "Hopefully that's all it is."

They didn't speak further and Joe tossed the butt of the smoke over the side. Without it, his fingers nervously twisted against his pant leg, his only outlet for the trepidation pacing in his belly. His thoughts swung back and forth – at one time contemplating another awful, panicked exit by her and wanting to avoid it all costs, but then moving to consider the fact that he couldn't just return to the US without ever speaking to her again. He wouldn't say he was owed anything, but he needed one last chance to tie the unraveled threads of their story together so he could at least not spend the rest of his days being unsure about what this all amounted to. He just had to find the balls to go in there, sit down, and get her to talk even if she tried to break a chair over his head in revenge for what he did to her.

It was easier said than done.

Compared to the rest of the city the hotel they came upon was lit up like the surface of the sun. As they stopped at a guard shack for Nixon to hand over his credentials Joe took in the bright flood lights illuminating a parade of generators and water treatment equipment as well as the rest of the grounds. MPs were everywhere – stationed at the doors, walking the perimeter, and manning a few hastily-constructed towers to watch over the scene.

"I thought you said she wasn't in prison," he noted tersely as they were waved through a gate in the barbed wire fence.

"She isn't free, Joe," Nixon told him, pulling up to the front promenade. "But this isn't like the place in Nuremberg. Trust me."

He didn't answer and slowly got out to trail Nixon up the steps to the guard at the front door, his feet feeling like blocks of lead and Caroline's bag weighing a million pounds in his free hand. As the guard nodded and opened the door, nausea joined the anxiety to tweak his insides.

They entered a lobby that at one time could have been considered the fanciest place Joe had ever been in. But the last six years hadn't been kind and now holes marked the walls and ceilings where soldiers or civilians had ripped the fine crystal light fixtures right out. In their absence ugly army lamps were hung, casting a whitish and cold glow on the gouged wooden staircase leading to the next floor. Bare concrete was hard under his boots, what he assumed had been thick carpet long since hauled away. Even the wallpaper was missing in wide strips, exposing plaster deeply cracked from the shock waves of the ordinance.

"Captain Lewis Nixon and Corporal Joseph Liebgott here to see Caroline Alsbach and her lawyer, Lieutenant Thomas Smith," Nixon told another MP stationed behind what had been the front desk and was now holding the log book in front of them and the cards from a game of Solitaire an uninterested private was playing at the other end. Nixon grabbed a fountain pen to sign the log while the MP nodded towards Caroline's bag.

"We are going to need to check that," he told Joe, motioning for it to be handed over.

"For what?" Joe asked, not moving. He didn't want someone else's dirty hands touching her things and possibly stealing them.

"Weapons or contraband," the MP replied, seemingly used to people arguing with him. "Either we search it or you leave it here and collect it on your way out."

"Give it to him, Joe," Nixon said.

With a short huff he did so, slapping it on the counter and hovering over it as the MP unhurriedly unhooked the latch and shuffled around the contents inside.

"Okay, you a good to go," he finally said, pushing the bag towards Joe. He quickly made sure the three items were still there before closing it and stepping back. "Up the stairs and to the left. Second door on your right. They are already in there."

"Thanks," Nixon replied, moving towards the staircase. Joe swallowed before following, watching the toes of his boots as they climbed each step, one by one. Closer and closer. Nixon followed the MP's directions and after what felt like two seconds was stopping in front of a door. A placard on the outside read _Legal Conference in Progress – Do Not Disturb!_ in large, bold letters.

"Joe?" Nixon didn't voice his question but Joe knew what he was asking. He nodded.

The Captain rapped on the wooden surface and there was a muffled "Come in," from inside. As he turned the knob to open the door Joe felt himself shrinking back, losing his fucking nerve like a replacement firing his first shot. The door swung inward and he saw a young, skinny man sitting at a table with an open notebook and a scattering of papers around him. Not Caroline. Still, his feet were glued to the floor and he desperately wished that someone would make this decision for him, would do the hard work so he wouldn't have to see her suffer.

Nixon looked over his shoulder at Joe and jerked his head. _Get in here._

He did as he was told.

Creeping up to the doorway, he saw her as Nixon went to shake the lawyer's hand.

She was sitting perpendicular to the lawyer's mess, her hands clasped on the table in front of her and her face tilted downward to study the woodgrain between her elbows like her life depended on it. Her hair was carefully braided and hung over one shoulder of her cheap gray dress.

She had known he was coming. He could see it instantly when she didn't move after he stepped into the room and the lawyer came over to greet him. He didn't take his eyes from her. As if she could feel it her shoulders hunched over and her head dipped like she wanted to hide.

"Why don't we take a seat?" Nixon suggested into the awkward silence that suddenly filled the room and Joe realized the lawyer had been asking him questions that he wasn't acknowledging. He silently followed them to the table, choosing the seat directly across from her.

She still didn't look at him.

Nixon and the lawyer started in about something and the lawyer loudly shuffled some papers. Joe didn't pay them any attention, his gaze raking over her and taking in every little detail he missed in their hasty reunion yesterday.

Her skin was pale and waxy, but had lost the grey tinge he remembered from the camp. She had finally put on some weight, hiding some of the skeletal boniness that concerned him from the moment they met. Her hands were still on the table between them, the nails bitten down to the nub and the cuticles scabbed and torn. Her mutilated left arm was clad in a clean bandage. One was also taped across her left cheek, but it didn't cover the yellow and green bruise extending from her forehead to her jaw. Her nose was still swollen, with another piece of tape holding it in place. A bruise pooled beneath her right eye and although her head was bowed he thought he saw a healing scab across her lower lip.

But he couldn't tell for sure. Because she refused to raise her head.

She was acutely aware of him, wound so tightly the braid trembled slightly against the pulse frantically beating in her neck. Her knuckles pushed against her skin as she clasped her hands tighter, turning white.

"It's been a difficult case, especially since she is generally uncooperative. I think the Major in charge of this is getting fed up, which doesn't bode well – " The lawyer droned on and Joe placed her bag on the floor at his feet, still watching her. He mirrored her posture with his good arm, leaning on the table with his elbow and pressing his palm into the smooth, cold surface just a couple of feet from hers.

She saw it. And flinched.

The movement was slight – just a small jump of her braid as her head bobbed, the minuscule jerk of her elbows inward – but it was enough that his breath caught.

She was _terrified._

His mouth dropped open slightly in surprise and the realization almost made him flinch himself with pain. He expected anger and bitterness and all the things he deserved for abandoning her. She had every right to curse him to hell and spit on his name. But not _this._ Not this meek, pitiful creature who acted like he was going to jump across the table to throttle her. The Caroline he knew was one who yelled at him for being a rude asshole, who endured the pain of interrogation without giving him up, who lopped off Henrich's toes with a hoe, who tried to crawl to him in the middle of a fucking firefight despite her broken bones.

That was the Caroline he loved. Not this shell of a woman who looked like a breeze would blow her over. The goddamn familiar burning seared behind his eyes again and he detested himself for it. _This_ was the result of what he did. Her, battered and barely put back together, watching him like a desperate, wounded animal. He was the predator, the one she knew could finish her off more thoroughly than any American court. _And he couldn't stand it._

"Look at me."

Nixon and the lawyer went silent at the sudden German he spoke, his voice rough and deep. Nixon regarded him with a cautious gaze, while the lawyer just looked taken aback.

He saw her chin tremble as she stared at the table, but she didn't respond.

"Wait, he knows German?!" the lawyer nearly shouted, diving into his papers again. "No one told me that!"

"It was in the report I sent after Corporal Liebgott returned from enemy territory –" Nixon started explaining.

"What report? I don't think I got it – this changes everything, sir. I can't believe I didn't know." More shuffling.

Caroline ignored them all. So did he, with the exception of her. He leaned forward, feeling the muscles of his face strain with trying to keep a neutral expression in front of the other two men. "Caroline, look at me."

Her mouth opened, letting out a soft puff of air that she had been holding. Her forehead wrinkled. And she shook her head slowly. _No._

He felt like he was on that fucking hillside again, begging her to come back to him. Only this time she was so much farther away that panic threatened to take control, urging him to invade her space and make her look at him even if he had to turn her head himself.

 _Don't, Joe. Touch her like that and she will never trust you again._

He took a careful breath, pressing his palm harder into the table to stop it from reaching towards her.

"Corporal Liebgott, are you listening?" the fucking lawyer intruded again, poking at Joe's forearm. "We need to get a statement from you about what was discussed while you were staying with her. I need to know what she has said about the Party and –"

" _Not…right… now,"_ he growled through his teeth, his tone dangerous as he drew out each word, and he shot his irritated gaze over to pin the lawyer in place. He realized his mistake as soon as Caroline drew back, increasing the distance between them until she was pressed into her chair. The shake of the braid wasn't so subtle now. The lawyer, on the other hand, faltered for a moment, jerking his hand away from Joe's arm, before visibly steeling his spine and looking to start in on some fucking dressing down for insubordination.

"Why don't we give them a few minutes together?" Nixon calmly interjected. "MPs always have the best hooch stash from all the contraband they seize. When is the last time you had a drink that wasn't the watered-down cheap stuff from the officer's club?"

Joe didn't look away from the lieutenant as Nixon rose from the table. Giving him a flat face, the lawyer stood as well, recognizing the captain's cue to leave it alone. "If you are offering, sir, that would be wonderful."

They left, the door clicking shut behind them with a sense of definiteness.

He and Caroline were alone.


	46. Chapter 44

**Hi everyone! I hope you are having a wonderful December, especially those who are celebrating Christmas!**

 **Thank you so much for the positive response to the last chapter. I'm sorry about leaving it on a cliff hanger :) This chapter is going to be a little shorter than the others. If you haven't already been able to tell, I've been writing WFR by the seat of my pants, with little else to go on other than an idea of how I want to plot to play out (and even that has changed a bunch). So, this chapter got a little short shifted to keep the pacing on track. It might be for the best; my husband saw my word count and asked if I was sending the Band of Brothers guys on an epic quest to defeat Hitler. Apparently I married a _comedian_** ** _:P_**

 **Anyway, I'll get out of your way and let you read. I hope you like it; let me know!**

* * *

"That wasn't meant for you. Your lawyer is obnoxious."

His first words in the thick stillness of the emptied room are intended to be reassuring, I think. Whatever it was that he snarled at the defense attorney, the dark anger conveyed in his voice was familiar and the tension pulling my body tight doesn't relax. He had seen again who I was – possibly in just as terrible of a way as the Kaufering photo – and my legs itch to run before he can turn on me again. The familiar aching radiates from the healing bruises of my face and the incision over my cheek bone as I continue to stare at my hands as they rest on my thighs, vigilant of his every move in the edge of my vision.

I can't look at him. I've hurt him again and again as the layers of my past peel back to the putrid core, and if I look at him now and see that mixture of hatred and pain on his face once more the brittle courage that brought me to this room would snap in pieces.

It was courage that took hours to build after I heard I was to meet with him. Going into court this morning I braced myself to see him again and face whatever repercussions he had planned after a night of stewing on how systematically I lied to him. When instead it was just the dark-haired officer waiting, alone, for a moment the despair opened up so widely inside me I thought my heart was going to fall to my feet.

He wasn't coming back. He finally had enough. I was by myself once more.

As I sat at the table, moved back into place after my tumble yesterday, and let the words of the translator drone meaninglessly past me, I slowly tried to close that hole back up. The bland static between my ears during this stupid trial and those long days at the hospitals was safe. It wouldn't explode into a hot burst of color like my heart did the moment I heard _darlin'._ I needed to get it back. This was what I wanted, after all. He nearly died rescuing me and now what? Just another photograph to show him who I really was and I think I would rather die than go through that a third time.

When he wasn't there I reassured myself that this meant I wouldn't have to face that happening. He was making everything easier by realizing quickly that he should have never taken me from Dr. Mueller, I thought. That I was meant to be buried with the rest of the Nazi criminals left dead in that tomb.

 _Yet._

Here he is again in this too-small room, telling me to look at him so he could show me how much I wounded him before he did the same in return. Even if he doesn't touch me, his presence alone is a looming threat that what little sanity I managed to recoup over the last couple of months would not be leaving this room with me.

Why did the other men leave us alone? Why did I agree to this? Ignoring him forever would be a fine alternative to telling him to stay away, even if seeing his face day after day until he got the message would chip away shards of me every time. I thought I could rip off the band aid and just tell him that I can't listen to what he has to say about how terrible I am. That this was the last time I would see him. But my vocal cords are paralyzed as his stare burns my skin and my trepidation over how he is going to react to this new lashing of pain makes my chest tight with unfurling dread.

It's a confusing mix of fear and dismay and longing for what was gone forever that bolts me to this chair, unable to even look him in the eye.

He is getting up. I see his figure rise, his hand pushing against the table to balance himself. I feel the air warming as he comes closer, either from his body heat radiating between us or the flush blooming across my skin in frenetic anticipation of what he might do.

The closer he gets the harder he is to ignore and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying desperately to avoid having to do this, to be here and confront the most awful part of the whole mess I put into motion last March.

I don't realize that my eyes are filling tears until two are pressed out between my lashes to drip down my cheeks.

The chair next to me scrapes across the floor and I feel him slowly sit down. Now just a corner of the table separates us, as useless as my plans to stop this before it happened. I feel stuck and helpless as I listen to him breathe and feel every inch of him so close to me. It makes my heart tie into a knot and my fingers dig into my skirt. My braid scratches against my neck and I wait for the _how could yous_ to start.

"Caroline," he says softly, my name sighing through his teeth. It cuts into me as cleanly as if he had screamed it in rage and I press against the back of my seat, another traitorous tear coming out. This time my name doesn't shoot out like an order. His voice is imploring and gentle. I don't trust it. I don't trust that he doesn't hate me.

He doesn't come closer. He doesn't touch me. He doesn't even sound upset. Instead he waits, his even breathing telling me he isn't going anywhere no matter how long I hide behind my shut eyelids. The stalemate lengthens, filling the room with unsaid things and unknown feelings until I want to choke from the lack of air. Why can't he just realize that this is… is… _done?_ That whatever he says now won't be any worse than what I already tell myself?

The steady pace of his breaths abruptly hitches and I can sense him leaning nearer. I don't dare to move a muscle, pulled taut like a bowstring about to snap.

"Your bruises," he tells me. "They should have healed by now. Are these new? What are they doing to you?"

Why does that matter? Why does he care? He shouldn't. He needs to yell at me, to tell me he hates me for being the Nazi I am and finally bury us once and for all.

A flash of warmth closing in on my cheek and then the hesitant brush of his hand against my skin. It hurts deep inside my chest just as much as his touch yesterday and I feel myself pushing off the chair, backing away from his misleading gestures and soft words that are an awful, beguiling cover for what he has to tell me.

"Please don't." With the words become more tears that I can't seem to stop, my eyes filling and blurring the floor I stare at as I back into the wall across from him.

"Don't what? Are they hurting you? Tell me." He sounds both heartbroken and distraught, the weakened thread running through his voice rising to the surface and cracking his words. My stomach heaves up into my ribs at the sound of it and I clench my hand over my own mouth, stifling the sob scrambling up my throat.

"Caroline, god-d-dammit…" His chair screeches along the floor as he stands as well, walking towards me. His curse is stuttered, heavy with an emotion I won't let myself recognize. "I swear to God –"

"No." I hold my hand out to stop him and hear his boots scuff as he jerks back just before reaching me. "They – It's from the sur-surgeries. To fix the broken bones. I don't know w-what… pins and screws and… I don't know. No one in France spoke G-German." Now that I've started talking the words won't stop, flooding from me with the same contorted sound as his. "I'm fine. T-They are treating me… fine. J-just…tell me what-what you want."

He doesn't answer and doesn't step away from my outstretched hand. My demand lingers in the depleting oxygen of the closing walls of the room. The bumps and cracks of the plaster dig into the skin of my back.

"What I want," he repeats in a flat monotone that somehow sounds so sorrowful another cry chokes in my stomach. "You want me to tell you what I want."

I make a noise and I'm not sure what it is – a cross between a whine and a whimper? It reverberates through my body and he is instantly stepping forward until my palm is pressed against the uniform shirt covering his chest. My hand sears there, connected to him with an electric shock that paralyzes every muscle in my arm from trying to draw back.

The sensation of his heart beating under my fingers and the reality of being trapped between him and the wall, with nowhere to retreat and fortify myself for what he has to say or do, attacks me from all sides until I feel myself buckling. My defenses are torn apart by his simple move, leaving a gaping wound exposing my heart to his hostile revenge. The visceral part of my brain screams at me to flee, to shield myself, but nothing else in me listens and another sob tears through my bones as I realize that I am completely, utterly defeated. I always was when it came to him.

"What I want," he repeats, his voice thick and low, "is for you to look at me."

I clench my eyes shut one more time, sending a fresh volley of tears to sting the stitches on my cheek, and admit that I had lost the battle the moment he walked into the courtroom yesterday. Raising my head until I feel the wall meet the back of my skull, I open them again to see his face.

He stares at me with a force that physically hits me, his brown eyes pointing unwaveringly at my own. They are red and tired but don't move. His skin is still sickly pale and his cheekbones are sharpened by the weight he's lost on his already lean frame. I follow the column of his neck down to a sling cradling his arm and the bulk of dressings under his shirt the opposite side of his chest from where my hand still rests.

I remember his blood dripping onto me as he tried to protect me from the flying wood of the tree. I remember how his cold, limp hand felt in my grip.

I know how close he came to dying and how he probably regrets ever meeting me.

"Why are you crying?" he questions softly, his attention finally moving to travel over the rest of my face. His elbow bends, bringing his hand up towards me –

My head jerks, plaster crumbling and tearing into my braid, as I move it away from his reach. He goes still, his hand hanging and his fingers stretching for me, and his eyes are tearing into me once more.

"Are you afraid of me?" he breathes. _Taunting me._

I can't watch his expression and look over his shoulder, wishing the damn tears would stop. "Just tell me. I can't take t-this." I couldn't. Every second he spends near me stretches like an hour, pulling in different directions until I'm afraid I'm just going to start screaming.

"Tell you what?"

My mouth gapes open and closed like a fish dying for air. "W-what you came here to say." I look at him again, watching the skin around his eyes crease with confusion.

Then he is stepping away, moving his long legs to create some space between us, and I nearly collapse, suddenly unmoored by the loss of his body under my hand. He is breathing hard as well, turning towards the door and throwing his hand through his hair in frustration. "You want an apology? Like this? Without even…" He stops, spinning to grip the back of his chair and face me again.

An apology?

His gaze darts to mine once more, his jaw working and clenching the muscles low in his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Caroline. More than I could ever possibly say."

I'm suddenly dizzy, leaning into the wall, and blinking at him. "W-what?"

"There is no excuse," he says, his stare piercing into me again and the last of his color draining from his face. "I should have had enough faith in you to listen to what you had to say and given you a chance to explain why you were at Kaufering. The fact that I didn't and that I…I abandoned you to those fuckers is unforgivable, I know. You deserve a much better man than me, but I hope that I still have a chance to make it up to you."

The vision of him tilts and the wall scratches my back and with a sharp thud I find that I've slid to the floor, my limbs crumpling under me like wilted blades of grass. Across the floor, behind the jungle of table and chair legs, his feet move.

Pressure fans across my chest and I'm crying harder, heaving uncontrollably as the sobs roll one after another. He stoops in front of me, his hand fluttering as if he wants to touch me but unsure if that would make everything worse. "Caroline, listen – I'll never hurt you like that again, I promise. Please, give me another chance. I'm sorr-"

" _Don't_ apologize!" I think I am going to throw up and spots dance at the edges of my vision. My hands ball into fists, thumping against my thighs. " _Stop!_ Stop _a-apologizing_."

"Okay. Okay, I am." He holds his hand up in a placating gesture, regarding me warily.

My nose is running and my braid is coming undone. Hair sticks to my wet neck. "You sh-shouldn't be apologizing."

The confused look is back, his eyebrows lowering. "Of course I should –"

"No!" I rip into my braid with my clenching fingers, tugging at it. The sting from my scalp distracts from the way he is looking at me, another apology forming on his lips. "Don't you understand, Joe? This isn't your fault!"

The dark brown pools of his eyes flash. "How the hell could it not be? I left you there – "

"Because I lied to you!" Frustration blisters into me when he shakes his head, his mouth thinning. "I lied to you from the very start about everything!"

"Why would you tell me the truth? The first few days there you weren't even sure if I was going to kill you or not!" His voice rises too, his nose flaring as he breathes sharply. "Don't blame yourself for acting like a rational fucking person!"

Why doesn't he listen? Why is he _arguing_ about who betrayed who? "R-really? What about afterwards, Joe? What about after we started to have feelings for each other? I still didn't tell you, because I knew. _I am a Nazi."_ My voice breaks, grating and sore. "Look at the photographs! You should have left me in the woods. You shouldn't have come after me, no matter what your reasons were."

"Don't say that!" He is back on his feet, frowning at the table so vehemently I'm surprised it doesn't burst into flames. "Leaving you there wasn't a fucking option and I don't regret it one goddamn bit – "

"You are barely standing right now. When your men were trying to get us back to the line…" The sight of him blurs again. "Y-you nearly died. I thought you did and I can't –"

His head jerks back over to look at me. "Did you pull the trigger? No, some asshole did. I won't let you punish yourself for something you had no control over."

"But I _did._ If I had been honest from the start –"

" _No._ I was the one who drove you out to the woods." He takes a step towards me, his finger jabbing in my direction. "I was the one who nearly fucking _executed_ you. I was the one who left you there with nowhere to go besides home. I got you arrested and taken there. I didn't have to do those things. The way I reacted set this into motion and nothing you could have done would have changed it. _Of course_ I had to rescue you even if I knew you would never forgive me."

"But I _deserved_ it!" I'm standing as well, pointing back at him. "There is nothing to forgive because everything that happened was going to whether or not you ever got stuck behind enemy lines. My name was on Henrich's and Dr. Mueller's list long before you showed up and I never had a chance. Whether they shot me or this American court has me hanged, it doesn't make any difference. I'm condemned for all the horrible things I did for them and the fact that I _used_ you to try to escape it is just more evidence that I am a _bad person."_

"I don't believe that." He says it so simply, as if it is an obvious fact. I half expect him to shrug with nonchalance.

"Then whatever you found out about me that convinced you I should be rescued isn't the whole story," I croak back, anger and pain boiling low in my stomach. "You need to forget you ever met me, Joe. Go back to America and live your life."

He goes still, the pause in our arguing descending like a frozen fog. A shiver lances through my skin and I tense, waiting for his reaction.

Licking his lips, his next words are pronounced like he thought each over carefully before speaking. "You want me to leave?"

"Y-yes." I lift my chin up, seeking to show some sort of bravado. The pain climbs up to my heart, unfurling with burning petals. _It's for the best._

His chest jumps with a humorless huff and he twists away again as if he couldn't bear to look at me any longer. "Really? Why are we here then, Caroline? What was it you expected me to say earlier?"

I swallow and wipe at my eyes again with a damp sleeve. "After the picture yesterday I thought you had come to yell at me. You were reminded again that I am not the person you thought you knew and I assumed you would be angry like last time. I didn't expect to be the one to have to do this."

"Do what?" he forces out, still looking away. "End us?"

God. I press the back of my hand against my mouth, trying to stop the quaking of my shoulders. The muscle in his jaw contracts so forcefully I think I hear his teeth grind together. "That's not what you want to do, Caroline."

Cold, humid air fills my lungs. "Yes. It is."

He shakes his head. "No. I don't know what you are trying to accomplish here, but the last thing I remember before passing out was you telling me that you loved me. I was worried that you would realize that what I had done was so awful that you couldn't bring yourself to be with me, but nothing could have happened to make you think you _shouldn't_ be with me."

"Plenty has happened. I had time to think. You need to stay away from me, Joe. I'm a Nazi and I'm about to be labeled a war criminal. Cut your losses and get out of here."

" _Stop it!"_ he suddenly snaps, whipping toward me and advancing with heavy footfalls. I scurry backwards, hitting the wall again. "You can't bullshit me. You aren't a Nazi. You aren't a 'bad person.' Everything you did for them was under duress. If it were true you would have turned me in the second I passed out from that fever." He towers over me, slapping his free hand onto the wall beside my face. "You didn't, Caroline, because none of what you say is true."

"What makes you think I didn't consider calling Schueller?" I shoot back, trying to look confident despite his proximity. "The only reason I didn't was because they would have let you die from the infection. If I turned you in healthy they could've gotten information out of you. That's what my motivation was in the beginning."

"Was it _really?"_ he asks, his question colored with doubt. At that moment he deliberately closes the space between us, keeping his hand next to my ear, until his legs are brushing mine. There is still room for me to slide away from him, but as we lock eyes my feet won't cooperate with the frenzied commands my brain is sending. When a slim slice of air is left separating us he stops, allowing it to fill with increasingly crackling energy while we glare at one another. Then his voice drops to a deep murmur that vibrates into me, down to my very core and suddenly making my skin flush for a different reason despite how determinedly I think he should leave me alone. "Even so, you chose not to even after I came after you in the yard. So why should I trust," his head tilts forward, until his mouth is a breath away, "anything you are saying right now?"

This close, there is no way to avoid inhaling the scent of him.

He's testing me.

I _know_ that.

But I can't help myself from taking a deep breath at the same time the rising and falling of my chest suddenly seems conspicuous as it skims against his uniform. I also can't stop the picture of the perfect curve of his lips so close to my own from flashing through my head. The foolish yearning to glance down at them dances through my thoughts, but his eyes hold mine hostage in a battle of wills that I realize I'm losing just as a stray lock of his hair brushes against my forehead. I don't stop what is happening.

For one second my brain falls silent and I… I…

The touch is feather soft at first, skin tentatively grazing against skin. My heart lurches upward at it, howling with delight. The air leaves my lungs, sucked out by the sharp inhale he takes. Those heated eyes stay connected to me, supporting my knees against crumpling at the first feel of him. I'm lightheaded, the ground suddenly unsteady under my feet, but I don't look away. I don't blink.

A pause, the loss of his melting heat, and our stunted pants mingle in the poised thread of space between us.

"Caroline," he exhales gently, his hand coming off the wall and curling around the side of my neck. His thumb strokes along the bone of my jaw, so tenderly the black bruise under his touch doesn't register it.

I don't know what I'm doing when I lean into his touch. Into _him_.

It's the permission he wants.

His lips find my again, consuming and hungry. In them I feel every day of the last three months we were apart, the sensation spinning straight through our connection to tear into the last shred of my resistance. The world goes black as my eyes shut again, but the darkness is colored by bright sparks of ecstasy that split through my brain with increasing frequency as his tongue lines along my bottom lip. The rough cotton of his jacket scratches my fingertips as I grab onto him, holding onto him just as much to keep myself upright as to pull him closer. The sling bumps softly against my elbow.

A groan rumbles through his chest as our bodies collide, flush with every inch of each other. His hand slides up into my hair, pressing my face closer as his teeth join his tongue to carefully tease my lips. I wait for the sting from the scab there but as the seconds pass it never comes. Instead a warm hum flows into my veins, comforting and wonderful. I open for him, taking him in, and relishing every taste. He groans again as our tongues meet and my heart pounds even harder in my throat. Tugging me off the wall, he wraps his arm around my waist to lift me off my feet until our faces are even and he can kiss me so deeply my toes curl in my shoes. He shifts to get more comfortable, making his arm travel up the back of my dress as he settles my weight.

 _What are you doing?!_

A fiery stab of pain sails through my nerves, knocking me off balance. The illusion shatters, taking with it the hazy dream of us still floating in my imagination and tossing the sensible part of my mind out of its stupor. Tearing my head away, I let out a smothered, wounded gasp that instantly has him releasing me. My feet hit the floor but my legs are like rubber. I stumble to my knees, catching myself with my trembling hands. The fire rips through my middle, centered where his forearm had pressed against a bandage covering more stitches from when they screwed my ribs back together. I wobble, trying to not make another noise, and blink rapidly to bring the room back into focus.

What was that? Why did I do _that_? Why am I such a _stupid_ moron?

"What is wrong? What happened?" His hand wraps around my bicep to help me to my feet. I jerk away, staggering up by myself to face him. He is looking at me worriedly, his lips as swollen as mine feel. The pain beats across my back, reminding me with every pulse that I just made a huge mistake. This was supposed to be a final meeting, a last goodbye before we went our separate ways. No kissing. No _feelings._

I thought those were safely locked away. My eyes are clouding again with tears. _Not this._

"Caroline –" He takes a step towards me.

"You need to go." The words are wrung through the panic closing in on my throat. Regret hollows out my gut. This was the worst thing that could've happened.

 _And you loved it._

He lurches back as if I hit him and swallows. His expression becomes drawn, but he doesn't stop staring at me. "You don't mean that."

"I do."

"Are you telling me that after _that_ –"

"It changes nothing."

"Bullshit." The budding desire cools in his voice and suddenly he is examining me with guarded caution again. He doesn't move.

I can't hold his gaze. "It's over, Joe." _Please, go away before I can't control myself again._

"What the hell just happened, then? Don't lie to me Caroline. You felt it too." He still stands there, not even glancing at the door.

"A lapse in judgement."

I barely have the words out before his fist lands on the table with a startling bang that makes me flinch. My lawyer's papers scatter to the floor at my feet. I step back, watching him carefully, but he only eyes me.

"I didn't fucking come all the way over here for this. I'm not going anywhere until I get the fucking truth. What is going on?"

The panic is intensifying and I fumble for an explanation that will make him go without looking back. There is really only one, one that is so awful I was hoping I wouldn't have to use it unless he wouldn't listen to anything else.

"I-I don't love you anymore."

The words come out in a rapid staccato, shooting over to him before I can reconsider it. I watch as he physically recoils, his fingers pressing into the table until it creaks. Taking rapid gulps of air, I blink away the tears, desperate to get this over with. Rip off the band aid. _It's for the best._ "I was vulnerable in that house. My feelings towards you were based in desperation, nothing else."

"Is that right?" he asks me in a tightly controlled voice. His arm is shaking.

"Yes."

Nothing is said for a long while. Sweat gathers in the small of my back as he studies me mercilessly, his face taut and white. Laughter echoes through the closed door, coming from somewhere down the hall. I wish the officers would come back. Anything to save me from this.

He retreats abruptly, ripping his hand off the table and turning to stalk to the opposite corner of the room. I don't speak as he stops to stare at the wall, his shoulders rising and falling with careful breaths.

"I'm afraid you aren't lucky enough to get rid of me so easily," he ultimately says in a measured, blank tone, not facing me. "Your lawyer wants me to testify in your defense. Until then I intend to be at every one of your hearings. I'll see you in the courtroom tomorrow."

Back in the courtroom? Looking at the pictures? Hearing all I've done? No, no – he needs to _leave –_

"Don't do that!" My anxiety has me stepping towards him, shaking my head.

He looks back at me, lifting an eyebrow. "Don't even try, Caroline. I'm not going to let you resign yourself to Nuremburg, even if I'm the only person who apparently gives a shit."

 _"_ B-but – You –" My ears ring, joining the alarm flooding into my head. " _Why?_ W-why won't you _understand?"_ My feet slide on the papers and I hang on to one of the chairs. The room suddenly seems hazy and a cough needles out of my lungs. "Get away from here. I-I'm telling you I _don't want you here."_

His mouth is a brutal line. "Too bad."

The tears come flooding back. _"Goddammit!"_ Another group of coughs erupt. _Breathe. Just breathe, Caroline._ I gulp in air. "…Joe, please. Testify if you want, but don't sit in on the hearings. I'm asking you for this last favor. If I meant a-anything to you, please don't do it." I hate how I'm pleading. I hate how his expression only becomes harder.

"Are you really fucking doing this? Trying to _manipulate_ my feelings towards you?" He raises his hand to hit the table again, but thinks better of it and instead clenches his fist at his side. "…What is it you don't want me to see, Caroline?"

The panic is strangling me. _Breathe._ It isn't working. He can't be there. That would make all this pointless and I would have to watch how it _hurts_ him. This room is too small. This _country_ is too small. My back throbs. My lips still taste of him. "Everything," I hear myself wheeze.

He faces me fully. "You were afraid of how I was going to react to the picture yesterday. There are going to be more pictures, aren't there? More information about what you did as a Nazi? To the Jews?"

"Please, Joe…" My throat burns with another spasm.

He isn't listening. "Are you trying to… to _protect_ me? Is that what all this is about?"

"No." Even as I say it I know he won't believe me. From the scoff he gives he doesn't, coming closer to the table. I hold onto the chair tighter and bend over, my neck giving out as my forehead hits my knuckles. Never in all my imaginings of how this conversation would go did I think it would be so abysmal. "I don't want you there because I don't want to see you again. I'm facing this alone," I mutter halfheartedly, knowing it wasn't going to make any more of a difference.

The sound of his responding laugh hammers into my ears, humorless and bitter. "You know, Caroline," his voice circles above me, his tone defiant, "when I came in here I half expected you to lay me out with a punch and tell me that I'd better not show my face again for abandoning you. The funny thing is, I would have respected that. I wouldn't have liked it, and it would have hurt, but I would have believed that those were your wishes and followed them."

I watch my tears splatter onto the papers.

"But this–this cloak and dagger shit, I don't give a fuck about. You don't think I can handle the truth? Fine. The past hasn't exactly given you that impression and I understand. But to try to drive me away with the _I don't love you_ crap? Its bullshit and I don't care how much you want to tell me it's how you really feel. We both know that kiss meant something."

This is going terribly wrong. Why did I kiss him? Where was my self-control? Tremors run through my bones. He was going to be there. He was going to know everything and I was going to have to watch his reaction. See his disgust at who I am.

I don't think I'll be able to handle this. My chest feels clogged and more coughs burst out of my mouth.

Without warning his boots are closing the distance to me, thudding on the floor. His anger is thick, seeping into the cracks of the room, and I automatically rise, wiping my mouth and bracing myself like I did when he first came in here. He stops before me, looking down at my face, but my courage is gone. I stare at his sling, muscles tightening in trepidation. His hand reaches out and encircles my wrist as it rests on the chair back. I involuntarily wince, but don't fight him.

Wordlessly bringing it up, he turns it over to expose the inside of my disfigured forearm. Slowly, he runs his thumb across the edge of the gauze. My skins prickles in his wake. I watch it, not moving even as my chest burns.

He breaks the silence with a deep breath and when he speaks again it is quiet. "I want you to know that what you are doing now is worse than what happened at that house could ever have been. Your reasons for hiding who you really were from me were based in fear, but they were at least logical. Now it's only that fear driving you into some misguided attempt to martyr yourself. I know you're stronger than this. And that's what pisses me off."His thumb finds my pulse point and stops.

My breathing is ragged as I stare at it, waiting for whatever he has decided to do.

"But I'm not him. Don't be afraid of me." He releases me, stepping away and grabbing a glass of water that rests on the table. Placing it on my still suspended palm, his hand cups mine to close my stiff fingers around the edges. "This isn't over. I'll see you tomorrow."

I hear the door open. English being spoken. Joe's voice. My lawyer's voice. Joe moving, grabbing something off the floor. Then the sounds of him fading, leaving me alone and staring at the water with a dazed expression on my face.


	47. Chapter 45

**Hi everyone! Once again, I am sorry for the delay in this chapter. I had a nasty bout of writer's block that took me a while to work through. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you reading and reviewing!**

* * *

In retrospect, Nixon's return to the meeting room with the lawyer was ill-timed.

Caroline crying, her hair a mess, her dress rumpled from when he lifted her and tried to catch her when she fell, her knees scraped, and her mouth swollen.

He with his jacket pulled askew, his own hair mussed from his tugging hands, looking frustrated and angry.

And a cockeyed table with papers thrown everywhere.

Putting himself in Nixon's shoes afterward, it was the sort of scene that made him surprised the officer didn't just slug him unconscious without waiting for an explanation and drag him to the MPs. Fortunately Nixon had more restraint than that, so instead Joe was just speared with a livid, accusing stare and a menacingly sputtered, "What the hell is going on?"

Still oblivious to how the situation appeared, the question was confusing for a moment and he only blinked in response. It wasn't until the lawyer inched towards Caroline, regarding at him like he was repulsive, that the pieces clicked together.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he muttered, shaking his head. The last thing they needed was an accusation like _that_ to add onto the pile of their problems. He looked to Caroline, who was staring at the water glass he handed her for the cough like she wasn't sure what it was. "Nothing happened, sir."

"That's not what if looks like, Corporal." The use of his rank rather than his name by Nixon was a giant red flag that he was about to run into some serious shit and he automatically stood up straighter at the sound of it, pulling his jacket back down and running a smoothing hand over his hair.

"I understand, sir, but _nothing_ did," he told Nixon, meeting the officer's eyes.

"So what were you doing? Having a wrestling match?" The lawyer chimed in, pretty much solidifying his reputation as a huge fucking pain in Joe's ass, but Joe kept his expression impartial as he replied. All they needed now was his pernicious attitude to convince them to run him through the ringer.

" _No_ , sir _,_ " he emphasized as the lawyer looked at him doubtfully. "We are having a disagreement about my presence at the trial and she is upset. I smacked the table in frustration, spilling the papers. That's all."

"I see," the lawyer replied slowly, leaving the accusation still hanging in the air. Really? After all this they thought he would do something untoward to her? Lord knows she knew how to hit him where it hurt if when she wanted to keep him at a fucking distance, especially since his shoulder was much easier to reach than his side had been. Even in her current state he made sure he walked a careful line with her - the fact that he wasn't sniveling on the floor right now was proof that he read her right when he pressed his mouth to hers.

"Ask her yourself when you have a translator tomorrow, sir." Glancing over at her again, for a brief second he considered that she would make up a story just to get him banned from the trial, but he quickly dismissed it – she wouldn't go so far as to get him arrested. No matter how pissed she was with him she wouldn't let that happen. Not if her goal was to protect him like he thought.

Caroline seemed to have forgotten they were all there and stood still, continuing to look at the water with a far-away expression on her face.

When the lawyer finally nodded and dismissed him by stooping to gather his papers Joe didn't waste any time. He crouched for Caroline's bag, deciding that now wasn't the occasion to drag her personal things out with the other two in here, and made for the door with only one last look at her.

The lawyer was trying to get her attention, but she was ignoring him.

Stepping outside, he saw the hallway was empty except for the temporary lights dully humming in the quiet. He heard Nixon swing the door shut behind him and turned towards the stairs to the lobby, but only made it a step before a hand roughly grabbed him by the elbow to yank him to a stop.

"Promise me, Joe," Nixon said in a low, tight voice as he pulled Joe close, "that whatever happened between you two at her house was… was _voluntary_ and that I am not facilitating some sort of god-awful rendezvous."

"What d'you –" Joe felt a flush color his cheeks. Nixon still wasn't convinced that while Joe could be an asshole, he wasn't a _lewd_ asshole? Sure, Joe realized that by being the only person in this nightmare that could talk to her besides Webster everyone was taking his word on how to characterize their relationship, but it was still bewildering that anyone could think he was capable of tormenting her in some sick game like Nixon seemed to think, or that Caroline would tolerate it. If the woman was complacent about going to the godforsaken gallows why would she put up with a letch of a GI in the interim?

"I promise, sir," he replied, his voice echoing off the bare, cracked walls on either side of them. Then, because Nixon still dug his fingers into the fabric of his jacket like he was about to chuck Joe down the stairs, he quickly continued, "Like I said, she is nervous after what happened when I saw the Kaufering photograph. So she tried to break up with me and told me to go back to America. I'm not. That's why she is crying. She thinks I'm going to hate her all over again with this goddamn trial nonsense."

Nixon reeled him even closer, his eyes black with misgiving in the shitty lighting. "What about the rest of it? Spill the entire story, not the half-assed one you gave the lawyer."

Joe rarely saw Nixon without the usual glimmer of sarcastic humor in his dark features, but when he did – D-Day, at Bastogne, in Kaufering, _now –_ the officer looked meaner than Sobel. And while Sobel was all bluster, Nixon joined Winters and Speirs in making the Trifecta of Not Fucking Around.

So he kept blabbering as Nixon hitched him up in the middle of the crumbling hallway like an errant schoolboy about to get a kick in the rear. "We did kiss, but it was _mutual_. Other than that we just argued."

"Just about the trial? We were gone for almost an hour."

"Hardly." He broke his gaze away to aim his exasperated expression at the closed door over Nixon's shoulder. "What _didn't_ we fucking…" He bit his tongue. _Not the fucking right moment to vent, Joe_. "…Look, it was about all this shit and who was at fault for what happened and about me refusing to leave her to be convicted. She blames herself for me getting shot and for some reason wants me to let her skip happily off to her own execution. But _I'm_ the one who sent her back over the line to get tortured by those Nazi fucks. I won't leave her to get condemned a second time, but she is being a-a stubborn... _idiot_ about it." He shot another irritated look at the door.

"What about her appearance?" Nixon pressed, unperturbed by the churning displeasure apparent in every inch of Joe's face.

"She tore up her own hair in frustration. I messed up her clothes by hugging her and when I let her go she stumbled, but that is _it_." Joe made a slicing gesture with his free hand as it dangled between them, although he stopped short just before he hit Nixon's elbow. The captain didn't acknowledge it.

"And the table?"

"I got aggravated and I admitted it. She called our embrace a 'lapse in judgement' and I smacked it hard enough to make the papers slide."

Nixon looked at him hard for another second. "And that's it, correct?"

"Yes, sir," he answered truthfully, pursing his lips together as he judged whether to keep his motor mouth running and risk digging his own grave. Nixon still wasn't fucking releasing him, so he decided he had nothing to lose. He didn't have the greatest reputation, but it was _certainly_ better than this bullshit.

"You've known me for over three years, sir," he said carefully. "I still regret that you wouldn't let me murder the man who _has_ done that shit to her – why would you think I would do the same thing? I promise that I haven't forced her to do anything, then or now." Then, because being treated like a goddamn criminal was only further sinking his temper, he added a grumbled, "Jesus Christ. I would never lay a finger on her like that."

Nixon held on to him for another second, his face not giving away his thoughts. Joe didn't move, and in the meeting room he could hear the lawyer ask Caroline something along the lines of if she was okay in incomprehensible German. He couldn't tell if Caroline answered and a flash of worry competed with the bright anger stewing in his head, but the last thing he could do at the moment was go back in there and badger her into telling them she was fine without looking like a lying criminal to Nixon.

"You know, you're right." Nixon suddenly let Joe go, his expression levelling out and his shoulders relaxing. He wiped his face with his hand, looking tired. "Apologies, Liebgott, for assuming the worst. The girl has been victimized enough and with what we walked into I may have overreacted." Nixon's voice was sincere and he stepped away to give Joe space.

Well, shit.

As he shook out his sleeve Joe immediately felt bad for getting annoyed. What the hell was he supposed to say now? Uncomfortable, he used a moment to adjust the sling, battling back the snarky, pissy side of himself that was rankling for a chance to have a field day with all the people who had gotten between him and Caroline and had its sights set on the officer, perhaps because he was the only other person in this goddamn hall.

However, Nixon was _also_ the only guy besides himself who was trying to look out for her here, something Joe wasn't sure he could ever explain how much he appreciated. So he ended up just forcing a shrug in response. "I can understand how you could misinterpret what you saw, sir. I would have just killed the guy, had it been fucking me."

The words came out more smoothly than he thought they would and Nixon nodded in response. Letting a quiet sigh of relief, Joe rolled his shoulders to dispel some of the angry tension wreaking havoc on his injury. Court martial averted, at least for the moment.

That fucking moronic lawyer, though, better stay in the room. Joe couldn't be responsible for whatever he said if that twerp showed his face right now.

Cracking a slight smile, Nixon started down the hall towards the stairs. "Thankfully one of us has more sense than that, Lieb."

 _If only one,_ he told himself sourly, his eyes lingering on the door and the infernally infuriating woman behind it one more time before going to follow.

* * *

The mess hall was quiet this early, full of lethargic soldiers coming off watch and even heavier-eyed ones desperately trying to wash away hangovers with shitty black coffee before they had to report for duty. A few gave him inquisitive glances that he didn't welcome and made the skin along his spine itch with discomfort. As of this morning he was no longer in nameless, unit-less soldier in a stolen, baggy uniform. Regulation garb, procured by Nixon at some point he guessed, was waiting on his bed last night. It was a Class B that felt uncomfortably stiff after wearing combat fatigues on the front line for so many months. The last time he wore the side cap and heavy wool coat covered in this fancy shit – what the fuck was on it these days? The normal pins, plus his jump wings, the PUC, the Brécourt Manor Bronze Star, a Victory Medal he'd never seen before, and he assumed another Purple Heart was coming down the pipe soon to add to it too. The fucking thing was going to weigh a hundred pounds by the time he headed home.

What was he saying? Oh yeah, the last time he dealt with this hassle was during his leave to Paris in… February? January? Fuck if he could remember the blurry days after Bastogne. He expected he was going to get his Class As back too before he testified at Caroline's hearing, which was going to have the same bells and whistles but at least the head cover was easier to deal with using only one hand. Anyway, the clothes broadcasted his association with Easy, which coupled with the irritatingly noticeable sling still looped around his neck to mark him as an outsider to the 7th occupying the city. Needless to say, he didn't bother trying to make conversation with anyone.

Instead he slumped in his chair, poking aimlessly at the gray goo the army called eggs on the tray in front of him. His injury was not bothering him for the first time since he descended from his coma – probably because Nixon made him go back to the hospital to spend the night – but his mood was heavy and dark anyway.

She was refusing to see him.

Before they left the internment center yesterday he cornered an MP and got a rundown of the visitation rules. Allied personnel had unlimited hours; he just needed to phone ahead to make sure she was there instead of court, the hospital, or wherever else they hauled her to.

What the MP neglected to tell him though was that she was apparently also notified beforehand. So imagine his surprise when he called as soon as he woke up and, after being on hold for-fucking-ever, the static on the line clicked and the distant, crackling voice of the operator told him that she had declined his visit. She wasn't going to leave her goddamn room.

And evidently by neither holding rank nor being a lawyer he had no other recourse in seeing her. It was completely her decision.

Great. Wasn't this just the cherry on top of the shit cake they baked together yesterday?

Sighing, he gave up on the eggs and went for a piece of the dry toast the servers had haphazardly pitched on the tray as well, if only to avoid a lecture from the nurses about regaining the weight he lost. They were an annoying bunch of hens that fussed over him while helping with the uniform this morning and as soon as he learned Caroline was going to be fucking stubborn he had slipped out of there to get away from them and meet Nixon at the barracks. Maybe the Captain could pull some strings with the MPs, if he got the message Joe left with his orderly and showed up.

That's another issue, he though miserably as he scowled at the bread that tasted like it had been canned at some point. Even if they resolved that stupid misunderstanding yesterday Nixon did not seem enthusiastic on helping Joe in his campaign to win Caroline over to the reasonable side of thinking. The last thing he told Joe before leaving him at the hospital was a repeat of the _give her time_ refrain he was already sick of hearing. They both had enough time. Three fucking months. And Caroline had spent it beating herself up about what happened and coming up with lies to try to break his heart.

God, the last thing they needed was fucking _more time._ If they were given that who knows what she would come up with next to drive him away. Maybe a new fucking boyfriend. A German one too, named _Hans_ or _Gunter_ or something like that who would be so much better for her than an irate Brooklyn Jew with a tendency to desert her in the woods.

He dropped the toast back onto the tray and shoved it away. Fuck it.

Underneath his displeasure lurked an unsettling realization, he knew. He was really just fucking afraid. If it hadn't been for her pressing her lips to his, grabbing onto him and molding herself against him like she missed him just as much as he did her, her saying _I don't love you_ would have killed him. As it was, though, even if he knew she still felt something for him he could tell it was tenuous and threatened by her need to protect herself against whatever she expected to happen at this trial. In the light of all that they had been through, what reason did she have to give him another chance to drag her heart through the mud? He didn't blame her for fearing a repeated showing of what a jackass he could be when came to photographs of her as a Nazi. He also didn't blame her for feeling culpable about the series of events that left both of them ending up looking like victims of a car crash. He of all people understood that guilt wasn't a sentiment that could be easily written off despite how much he argued the greater fault was his.

What he could blame her for, however, was this idea that if she hurt him enough he would leave. At least her decision to keep him in the dark about who she really was wasn't based on an intentional effort to cause him pain. If anything, her assumption that he couldn't see what a terrible liar she was and, even if he didn't, that he would become so offended that he would just walk away – bullet wound he got rescuing her and all – really rubbed him the wrong way. She had no motive to trust him right now, but she had to give him more credit than that. He would have actually considered her request if she had just been upfront with him and gave her honest reasons why she didn't want him in the courtroom.

He would have probably still shown up of course, but at least it would have been in a significantly less peeved mood. Outside of her sincerely hating his very existence, he wasn't sure if anything could keep him away from her.

"Morning."

A cup of coffee landed on the table across from him and Nixon plopped in the seat, drawing Joe out of his sullen thoughts. "How's the shoulder feeling?"

"Better, thank you, sir," he replied distractedly, still glaring at the revolting toast.

Seemingly unconcerned of the bustle of the dining hall, Nixon dug a flask out of his jacket and poured a generous shot of some liquor into his coffee with the abandon of a man far past giving a shit unless General Eisenhower pulled up a chair. "You want any?" He held it out to Joe, plainly out in the open without dropping his voice. "It's the only thing that makes it drinkable."

Joe shook his head hurriedly, unconsciously slouching in his seat in case some passing Major happened to catch them drinking on base at six fucking AM. Wouldn't that be perfect?

As Nixon shrugged and returned the container to his jacket Joe took a quick look around. A few enlisted men were taking second glances but no one pulled out a rulebook to start browbeating them, thank God.

Nixon took a sip of the steaming sludge and grinned in complicity before looking at the half-eaten food on the tray between them. "Army cuisine not doing it for you this morning?"

Straightening once more, Joe rummaged in his own jacket for the pack of cigarettes he bought when he was dropped off at the PX. "I thought we won, right? Shouldn't the spoils of war contain actual eggs?"

Leaning forward in his seat, the captain studied the gelatinous blob. "They did, but you simply didn't get any. Make at least lieutenant grade in the next one, Lieb. Lesson learned."

Joe lit the tip of the Lucky, squinting through the smoke with a raised brow. "Makes sense. My mistake, sir."

Nixon smirked in return and took another drink, his gaze wandering over the other men at the long tables. "Making any friends?"

"Why would I do that?"

Nixon shrugged. "There isn't anybody from Easy here. Might as well find someone to talk to who isn't a nurse and doesn't hold rank. Exhaust some of your natural surliness before you go off on Caroline's lawyer again."

"You mean, get into a brawl? That's one way to get my ass handed to me since I have only one arm, sir." Given the choice, he only did three things with guys outside of his unit: get into stupid fistfights, gamble for cigarettes, and, if they were Nazis, kill them. He couldn't be less interested in partaking in any of those activities at the moment.

"Suit yourself," Nixon told him casually, taking another, bigger drink. "Caroline's lawyer is not keen on leaving you alone with her again, though, so it'd be in your best interest to behave around him."

Oh, come on – "Really, sir?" Joe took the cigarette out of his mouth. "I thought we cleared that up yesterday."

Nixon took the one untouched piece of toast from Joe's tray and bit into it. " _We_ cleared that up, not you and him. You upset his client, which does not help in getting her to cooperate. He doesn't know that you can be not-an-asshole at times, so he probably blames you for making his job harder. Whether or not you actually were _ungentlemanly_ towards her is irrelevant to that fact."

Joe stubbed out the cigarette in the eggs, making Nixon pull a face. "If I could just fucking convince her to stop this stupid crusade to sacrifice herself –"

"You're not one to talk about stupid crusades, Corporal _AWOL_ ," Nixon butt in, waving towards the sling with the bread.

Joe had to physically stop his eyes from rolling in impatience. "That's completely different – if I hadn't snuck out she would be on her way to Nuremberg before they even let me sit up bed," he argued, wanting another cigarette already but resigning to just tap the pack against the table. Who knew when he would have a chance to get more? "She is just being ridiculous. She _wants_ to be convicted like it's some sort of penance."

Nixon tossed his own half-eaten slice back on the tray to join Joe's. "So you think you can stop that from happening? The odds are against you, if what I have seen is anything to go by."

"I just need to talk to her again." He let out a deep sigh. " _But,_ she is refusing to see me."

That got Nixon's attention. His eyes rounded in surprise and he set down his coffee cup. "She's refusing visitation?"

"Yeah, she is making this as hard as _possible_." He took a breath, looking towards the heavens. He knew she was trying to aggravate the hell out of him and it was working, which was even _more_ aggravating, especially since it was pointless. He wasn't going anywhere, no matter what she did. "I called this morning to go over there, but was denied. They told me that she could do that unless I was a lawyer or an officer." He trailed off, dipping his gaze down to Nixon. The other man looked thoughtful but didn't say anything, so Joe gave it another shot. "Last night was a mess and I let my emotions get the better of me. If I could see her again I know I'll be calmer and have a chance of fixing this, sir."

Nixon drummed his fingers on the tabletop, clearly considering something, which caused hope to glimmer in Joe's chest. "I would agree that you are certainly more determined. I almost had to drag you over there yesterday," he finally responded, turning his face to meet Joe's eyes again. Joe leaned forward, almost eagerly. "But consider that this may be for the best, Liebgott."

At first thought he misheard, that Nixon wasn't actually shooting him dead in the water. But as the officer's expression turned into a regretful frown apprehension snapped through his nerves and he pushed his elbows off the table, his spine going rigid. Nixon was fucking _on her side?_ Son of a –

Nixon saw what was coming. "At least for the moment, Joe. Don't get upset," he continued hurriedly. "She was quite distraught when she saw you last and, from what you told me, she is terrified about how you are going to act in response to the hearing. I doubt anything has changed regarding that in the last twelve hours. She has a long day ahead of her and her lawyer will kill both of us if you get her all hysterical again."

"I fucking won't –"

Nixon held up a hand. "Hear me out. You can tell her that you don't care what is going to come out during the inquiry until you are blue in the face. My guess is that she is going to continue to not believe you and push you away. _Show her_ you can handle it instead. Go today and whatever you find out, don't let your head explode. If you can show her that you are telling the truth she might be more receptive to listening to you. Best case scenario is that you prove that you care about her enough to avoid a repeat of what happened at Landsberg and that she has something to fight for by avoiding Nuremberg. Worst case…" Nixon stopped, looking down at his now empty cup. "Worst case is that whatever you find out is more terrible that you could have foreseen and you'll have to decide if you can continue to be with her. If the answer is no, you can simply leave without a big blow up to cause her even more misery."

When he was done the two of them sat in a long silence. Joe's fingertips were white on the cigarette package. A private dropped his tray at the far end of their table and moved to sit, but a meaningful shake of Nixon's head had him quickly sliding away to another.

Joe looked past Nixon's shoulder, to where the mess guys were reloading the food bins. He watched them as he spoke again. "Do I have a choice in this, sir?"

Nixon let out a long, drained sigh. "Can I ask you a question?"

When Joe dipped his head he continued, "Why are you this… dedicated? Before now you barely talked to the men outside the Toccoa group. Malarkey can't recall if you have even danced with a woman since Normandy. So why suddenly get involved with one, an ex-Nazi no less? What happened during that week?"

Joe drew his eyes from the kitchen crew to study Nixon's form, unable to stop himself from drawing his guard up. What the fuck was this about?

The man was still relaxed in his chair, the empty coffee cup slowly being spun between his fingertips. He didn't look suspicious like he wanted to bust Joe for fraternizing with the enemy, nor concerned like he was going to try to convince Joe to forget her and go back to The States as well. Instead, oddly enough, he just seemed curious.

He flicked open the pack of Luckies with his thumb and brought it up to his lips to take out another. Screw it, he'd buy an extra fucking pack on his way out. Talking around the cigarette as his free hand was reaching for his lighter, he decided to be frank. "You know we've only kissed four times? Maybe five if you want to be generous."

Nixon squinted in a puzzled fashion. "'Only' as in…"

"Yup." He lit the smoke and took a deep draw. "Despite what everyone is probably assuming, there wasn't any _rolling in the hay_ out on her farm, so to speak."

To his surprise, Nixon let out a chuckle of amusement. "So, that just makes me all the more interested in why you are doing this." He sat forward, pulling out his own pack and lighter. "You know, Malarkey was worried –"

"Malarkey worries about everything," Joe interjected.

"Maybe, but his concerns aren't outside the realm of possibility. You told him that fraternization got the better of you at one point. From our perspective, she gave you shelter, saved you from dying of that shrapnel wound, hid you from the Nazis and nearly got killed for it." He flicked the lighter. "Then you left her behind, and she nearly _did_ die because of the consequences. Feeling both indebted and guilty, not to mention being around a woman for the first time in a long while, can be a powerful combination that can sometimes be misinterpreted as devotion."

"That's his theory?" Joe asked, letting out a huff of his own. "That I'm turned all sideways because of what she's done for me and how I treated her, and that she happens to be female? While I admit that certainly _matters_ , he should have a little more faith that I'm not a moron. There's more to it than just those factors."

"Then explain it to me." Nixon replied and ashed his cigarette in the coffee cup.

If Nixon wasn't so integral to his access to Caroline Joe would have spit out something profanity-laced along the lines of _you fucking think I even know_? But he discerned that this was not the reassurance Nixon was looking for and instead took another drag while focusing on the mess kitchen again. It would be easier to fucking try to explain this if he didn't see Nixon's eyes examining him like he was under a microscope.

"It didn't happen right away," he began. "My first night there I threatened to break her neck. Twice, actually. Scared the shit out of her, I think." He cringed a bit, remember how big and dark her eyes were in the beam of the flashlight when he tied her to the stove. "I was still bleeding pretty good, you realize, and wasn't eager on being taken prisoner a second fucking time so I might've still been operating on the same instinct from killing that German soldier and she…"

He frowned at the burning tip of the cigarette in his hand, his thoughts tracing over their time together and how much Nixon deserved to know. Everything? His cruelty, followed inevitably by what he knew about what had happened to her, heedless of her privacy? What occurred between them that night, and the succeeding incidents where he treated her with an unsettling lack of compassion, measured up one after another until his lips zippered shut and the cigarette was burning unused to his knuckles. He had been debriefed by Lipton and Malarkey after he made it back over the line over the line with her, but he had kept it short and succinct. Shrapnel wound, capture, escape, found help, and returned. Her name was barely mentioned, and even then it was just her first because he wasn't sure if her Party membership was going to be an issue in allowing her to stay. He left Schueller out of it, too, as well as Greta and Henrich until those pieces of shit became his only way of finding where she had been taken.

So he hadn't talked to anyone about how his rifle cut into her jaw as they were surrounded by the white sheets in the yard, how Henrich pinned her against the barn and how loud her whimper rang in his ears, how her cries of pain during Schueller's interrogation tore at his heart, or how her broken spirit stared at him on that windy hillside. He didn't say how soft her hair was in his hands, how the clear blue of her eyes followed him everywhere he went, or how her very presence – just upstairs in the farmhouse where he was interviewed then or across the city from where he sat now – was an anchor stopping him from being swept out into the dark and bloody sea he had been staring at ever since he jumped into the blackness of France that fateful night last June.

The black and white facts there in her file, the same file being read aloud to whatever schmuck wanted to sit in the courtroom, were already enough to tear her apart. That much was obvious in the anxiousness coiled in her every movement and the defeatism she tried so hard to convince him was genuine. She was stretched so thin, ready to break at the first sneer he threw her way, by the facts that were just a bureaucratic record of what she had physically done, however terrible it was. To share what he knew of her heart, to open up the last aspect of herself to the scrutiny of the unsympathetic men judging her fate, was not something he was sure he should do. Nixon was a good man but Joe knew that he wouldn't hesitate in reporting what he thought was pertinent, even if it was for her own good, to that joke of a lawyer.

No… Nixon couldn't be trusted. Not with intangible aspects of Caroline's experience. Not with her hurt, her humiliation, or her sorrow that he carried in his memory like it was his own. If she decided to air them herself that was fine, but it wasn't a decision he could take out of her hands regardless of how much her current pigheadedness got under his skin.

"Do you remember Blithe?" he finally asked the man across from him, watching the ember of his cigarette creep towards the filter.

Nixon had leaned back, his fingers going to play with the brass buttons of his jacket as he intently scrutinized Joe. At the question he stopped, tilting his head. "Come again? Blithe?"

"Yeah." Joe tossed the butt into the eggs as well. "He was a Toccoa guy but got it from a sniper –"

"I remember who Private Blithe is, Liebgott." Nixon sat up, curling his hands together on the table between them. "But I'm confused about his role in your personal life, unless he went AWOL from England too and popped up somewhere in this, in which case I have some phone calls to make about security at that goddamn hospital in general and two sergeants who need to be kept under close watch specifically."

Joe pulled up one corner of his mouth. "No, sir, I haven't seen him since France. I'm talking about before he got shot, during the night we were dug in outside of Carentan. _The Night of the Bayonet."_

"Ah, well then. You sure you don't want any?" He pulled out and waggled the flask in Joe's direction again. At Joe's wave-off he unscrewed the lid and threw a swig back with practiced ease.

"After Tab was taken to the rear I was situating myself in his foxhole to replace him when I overheard Speirs talking to Blithe. Blithe had come over to see what the screaming was about, I think, and Speirs found him. Blithe was asking for advice. Was all torn up about being afraid of getting hit. Speirs told him, 'The only hope you have is to accept the fact that you're already dead, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you'll be able to function as a soldier's supposed to function. Without mercy, without compassion, without remorse. All war depends on it.'"

God, over a year later he could still feel the cold rain dripping down his collar and his boots slowly sinking into the mud while he listened, could still hear Speirs' cold and impassive voice brutally shove Blithe out of his inner turmoil and into the harsh reality that the world didn't give a shit who lived or died so Blithe shouldn't either, even when it came to his own fate. Could sense those words meshing with what he had already figured out when he himself plummeted into the same hellhole. _All war fucking depends on it._

"Speirs never had a soft touch, unfortunately," Nixon said, bringing Joe back around. He looked circumspect, like he wasn't sure where Joe was going with this. "He is a good leader but a little rough around the edges, especially back then."

Joe blinked at him. "But… it's true," he responded, a little incredulously. Who didn't know this after all the bloodshed they've seen?

The coffee cup was still between them and the officer slid his hands back over it, rotating it in his fingertips again in what Joe realized was a apprehensive gesture. "Is it now?"

Joe watched the cup spin. Then it hit him.

Nixon had never actually been _in_ battle.

He had been there, of course, freezing, starving, and stinking with the rest of them through France, Holland, and Belgium. But when the bullets actually started flying he was always in the _periphery_ to watch and report back to Sink what had happened. He carried a rifle – a least until recently – but Joe couldn't remember if he'd ever seen him use it after they completed training. He hadn't been on the actual front line at any point, at least from Joe knew.

The cup stopped. Nixon's dark eyes regarded him.

"From my experience, it is," Joe qualified, his voice soft. He couldn't fault Nixon for having a college degree and being more useful to the army as an intelligence officer than as cannon fodder infantry. He was certainly more useful to _Joe_ as one. Nixon never talked shit that he couldn't back up like some replacements who hadn't even seen a German soldier. And he had always been a good guy, especially at Toccoa when it was everyone against Sobel. Catching his lip with his teeth, he shifted uncomfortably and tried to explain it the best way he could. "The best way not to lose your shit is to realize that death is coming and it's unavoidable. Maybe in battle, maybe years from now, but realistically a German bullet was probably going to end it all. So why not skip right past the fear and embrace the fact that you are going to die? It stopped a lot of guys from freezing up like Blithe did. The papers love to talk about bravery and fortitude, but in the end fighting isn't so glamorous. It's suicidal."

Nixon broke his stare to look out the window at the end of their table. The light was getting brighter as the sun rose, illuminating the side of the temporary barracks that had been hastily built next to the mess hall. "I agree it certainly was in Blithe's case."

"Blithe was lucky in that he got his answer early enough – he knew whether he was going to survive the war or not within a few weeks. Those of us who didn't…." Without a cigarette to still his fidgeting his fingers were picking at the rough wood of the tabletop, digging in almost painfully against the ridges and knots of the grain. "There is only so long you can think of yourself as dead before you wish it would finally just happen. The wait can become tortuous. It can make you fucked up."

Nixon turned away from the window and pressed his knuckles against his lips as he considered Joe once more. "And that's what happened to you?"

The skin of his thumb tore and welled up with a thin bead of blood. "You knew my reputation, sir. Winters didn't even trust me to escort unarmed prisoners without killing them."

Nodding solemnly, the officer replied, "He was worried about you, especially after Bastogne."

"I was worried about me too."

If Nixon had a reply to that he didn't share it. The drop of blood grew and they both watched it, deep in their own thoughts before Joe spoke again.

"Until her."

That was his best attempt to characterize it. The rarefied aspects of it, the way it reached into him and soothed the dangerous parts of him until they were under control again. Until he felt like he could be human, someone worthy of living through this and being loved.

 _It._ That was the only term seeming to fit their relationship. Different than pure adoration, greater than admiration, somewhere on the level of love but somehow more realistic than the sweet words and moon-faced expressions he always equated with the notion of sweethearts.

Come to think of it, _sweetheart_ wasn't even a label he would apply to Caroline. _Darling,_ sure. He never knew why that slipped out originally, because Lord knows he was the _last_ person to assign pet names, but it seemed to fit her in a way he couldn't place his finger on. She was too damaged and been through too much for the saccharine implications of _sweetheart,_ yet _darling_ triggered something warm in his belly when he used it _._

So he would call what they had _it_ until he could think of something better. _It_ implied a state of being, a fixed and real thing no matter how either of them tried to fuck it up. _It_ was separate from all this shit and _it_ would still be around long after this war was over. Not _fling,_ not _affair,_ and for heaven's sake not _dating._

Nixon still watched him, fingertips pinching his bottom lip. "So, that's it. It sounds like Malarkey was barking up the wrong tree. You are really in this deep."

Joe gave a flagging nod. He was, even if it made him more vulnerable than he ever thought he could be and that fact was terrifying.

"So will you consider going to the hearing today and keeping your mouth shut? I honestly think that is the only thing that is going to work at this point. She needs a soft touch to convince her that you have changed your tune. Harassing her to listen isn't going to do it."

Joe felt his shoulders sink as he sighed. "I'll give it a chance. Can't hurt -"

A _BANG_ split the air. Metal hitting metal, accompanied by a hoarse shout, and suddenly his brain simply went blank.

He was ducking, eyes darting for an enemy, reaching for a rifle that wasn't there, and hissing as his slinged elbow ricocheted off his thigh. Nixon shot around in his chair towards the source of the noise.

 _GET FUCKING DOWN! TAKE COVER!_

He almost shouted the words to the officer when Nixon's posture suddenly eased. Seeing that he froze halfway to the floor, allowing sound to slowly bleed back into his consciousness. He heard… laughter.

Leaning around Nixon, he caught sight of one of the mess guys standing next to a tower of metal trays that had toppled over, frowning and cursing.

Trays.

Not mortars. Not grenades.

 _Son of a bitch._

A group of enlisted assholes the next table over let out another couple of loud hoots and claps at the sight, shattering the surprised pause following the racket. Yanking his jacket down and smothering the sore prod from his injury, he sat back up.

Air shot in and out of his lungs. His palms were slick. The wool uniform may as well been a winter coat in the middle of the desert. When he placed his hand back on the tabletop his fingers trembled slightly. He repeated the curse and told himself to calm the fuck down. It was just trays. Germany surrendered. Everyone was safe here.

If only his heart would stop flinging itself around his chest. Where the fuck was his usual weird calmness? It controlled him during the actual fucking hostilities, but as soon as he stopped fighting it was going to abandon him to look like a crazy person just because of some fucking _trays?_ He told himself, as Caroline slept in his lap on the floor of that cellar what felt like ages ago, that he didn't want to be a heartless machine any longer. But that didn't mean he wanted to turn into someone who jumped at every loud noise.

"You alright, Joe?" he heard Nixon ask quietly. His reaction hadn't gone unnoticed. Goddammit.

The other table was still going at it like this was the funniest thing they had ever seen and he spared a moment to stare hard at them instead of answering Nixon. Their patches said they were engineers, and they looked fresh off the boat too. Clear-eyed and young. No wonder.

They would never know the sensation of having the crash of fucking trays flash across their nerves in a panicked warning that death was coming for them. They would never have what happened here haunt their waking and sleeping hours. Their wives and girlfriends were at home, safely as far from this shit as they could get. They had nothing to worry about.

He was bitter. He felt it as his pulse gradually slowed, watching those fuckers smile and laugh at something so stupid. The feeling had been pooling in the back of his mind for months, ever since he had his first leave to London after Normandy and realized the world had moved on without him. That he and his friends suffered and died but that didn't stop people from complaining that there was no chocolate due to rationing. That they were nearly annihilated in the goddamn Ardennes but a coldblooded Dear John letter still made it through the freaking encirclement to find Buck. That men like this thought some guy's misfortune in a mess hall was fucking _hilarious_ while the city outside this base was still smoking from fires and stinking from bodies.

The war in Europe was over before those guys even left training camp, yet here they were basking in unsullied victory. Yeah, he was fucking _bitter_ alright. Without fighting to keep him occupied it poured from the container he had kept carefully sealed until now and filled him up until he was about to say something nasty and regrettable despite being in no position to exchange inevitable punches.

The short man sitting at the end of their table caught sight of Joe's face and quickly quieted down while roughly nudging the man to his side. The other guy ignored the motion, shouting some dumb one liner at the private picking up the trays.

The fury had his mouth moving before he could stop it. "Hey, _assholes."_

Silence gripped the table instantly. The one who had ignored the nudger seemed to be the leader and he turned to slowly look Joe up and down. "Something wrong, buddy?" he asked, loudly.

"Yeah," Joe replied, "you guys are idiots. Shut up."

He didn't raise his voice, but the leader's eyebrows shot up, his eyes skimming to the silent Captain watching and back to Joe. Then a sardonic smile broke across his face and he looked at his buddies, jutting his chin out. "You know, that's not a very nice thing to say, pal."

"Do I look like I give a shit?" Joe didn't move a muscle, staring at the guy who looked like he was going to puff out his chest like a damn bird.

The engineer made a noise and went to stand. "You want to start something, chump? Think that just because you got an officer –"

"I'd think I consider myself a little more important than that, Private," Nixon decided to cut in, his tone light but laced with an unvoiced threat. "But then again I have a theory that they gave me these bars as part of a big fat joke that I've just never been let in on. We could find out, though, when I have you digging latrines for the rest of the year. I'm curious, personally."

The man stopped and for a moment Joe thought he was going to talk back like a naïve moron that Joe knew he was, but instead he just rapped his fist lightly against the table in apparent frustration and flopped back down. He glowered at Joe, his jaw ticking. "Sorry, sir."

"Fine. As you were." Grumbling, the men started shoveling down food, ignoring both the private picking up the trays and Joe. As the volume of conversations in the room returned to normal, Joe felt Nixon's vexation before he opened his mouth.

"I know – _I know_ – I'm the one who suggested you work out some of your worst qualities before you speak to her again, but don't goddamn do it in front of me, Liebgott."

"They won't do shit, sir. I would bet they haven't even been stationed here two weeks but they should still know better than to fuck with anyone in the infantry. If they don't, I think the 7th could get them straightened out. Patton would probably fucking do it personally."

"That doesn't matter, Joe, if they decided to get a jump on you just now. You told me yourself you will get your ass beat since you only have one working arm. I don't want to have to pull rank on every asshole you piss off to save your hide."

He answered, dismissing the engineers with a shake of his head, "Understood, sir. Next time I'll make sure it is a major or higher."

That earned him a haggard exhale and a, "You are such a dumbass. I don't know why I am bothering with helping you."

A corner of his mouth tilted up and he grabbed the tray and stood, looking to Nixon once more. "Because it's easier for Winters to have you here to deal with me than trying to clear his schedule to attend my court martial, sir. Are you ready to head over to wherever they are holding the hearings?"

He pushed in his chair with his knee and made his way over to the dish drop off. Behind him he heard Nixon stand too, begrudgingly muttering, "I think I'm going to need to refill my flask."


	48. Chapter 46

**Hi everyone! I hope you all had a good Valentine's Day! Once again, sorry this chapter took longer. I'm trying to speed back up, I promise! Please enjoy and let me know what you think. Thank you for reading!**

 **Cecilia - Thank you so much! It's good to hear from you again :)**

* * *

 _Detainee:_ _CAROLINE ALSBACH_

 _This notice is to inform you that RANK:_ _T/5 __NAME:_ _JOSEPH LIEBGOTT __UNIT:_ _E COMPANY 2_ _ND_ _BATTALION 506_ _TH_ _PIR_ _has requested to meet with you on_ _12 JULY 1945_ _at_ _0700_ _hours._

 _Pursuant to US Army regulations this person is not considered legal counsel and does not hold sufficient rank to mandate that you attend. You must provide consent for this visitation._

 _If you CONSENT, visit duration is limited to_ _1_ _hour(s) due to high demand. Total number of visits is not restricted at this time. Visits with persons not considered legal counsel are subject to monitoring by US Army personnel. If this visit conflicts with scheduled hearings, the visit will be postponed or completed at a later time and/or date._

 _If you DECLINE, the requestor will be notified of your decision and dismissed without further action. Your decision will apply to this request only. If the requestor returns you will be given this notice again. You MUST decline EACH visit. The requestor will be provided the opportunity to leave written communication to be delivered to you. Such communications are subject to monitoring and censoring, if deemed necessary._

 _CIVILIAN VISITORS WILL NOT BE ADMITTED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN AUTHORIZATION FROM ETOUSA COMMAND AND A DESIGNATED ESCORT. NO CITIZENS OF GERMANY OR HER PREVIOUSLY ALLIED COUNTRIES ARE PERMITTED ON US ARMY PROPERTY AT ANY TIME._

 _Circle your decision below and initial on the provided line._

 _CONSENT_

 _DECLINE_

A soldier stands in my doorway, holding out a pencil.

Breakfast roils and rises in the back of my throat and the paper bends in my hand, folding in the grip of my fingers. Lack of sleep gums my eyelids together and I think maybe I've misread this. Maybe it's not his name at the top. Maybe I'm imagining things. But as I look at the name once more there is no denying the letters written with perfect precision in the blank space between the typed German words.

 _He wants to see me._

Why? To badger me again with his insistence that we can go back to the way we were, as if nothing has happened? To argue once more that I'm somehow untainted by what I've done?

I can't.

To have him talk to me, to have him near enough to make the thoughts in my head cloud and dissolve, to allow him to torment me with his promise that he will never hate me again… I can't do it.

Kissing him yesterday was wrong. I broke the promise I made to myself that I would spare him the best I could and by doing so made him hope for something that won't happen again.

Hope now will only make court today that much more devastating.

No, I can't see him. He needs to accept that if he won't leave on his own I'm going to do everything I can to keep him away from me and protect him from the consequences of this trial and whatever is going to happen at Nuremberg.

The soldier is still holding out a pencil, looking fed up as I silently clutch the paper, reading it a third time.

Why _does_ he want to see me? What more could there possibly be to say? He already knocked me off a cliff yesterday and left me nearly catatonic until my lawyer finally shook me out of it. He was so angry that I couldn't help but wait for the worst, but when it should have come he instead left his soft touch skimming across my wrist and… that stupid water glass.

I severely underestimated him. I expected the Joe I met that night on the road months ago to be in that room, full of hatred and hostility and violence. The same Joe who found Kaufering, who uncovered the evidence of my guilt and reacted with such furious heartbreak I almost didn't survive it, for better or worse. A Joe who I expected to take my dismissal of him as another reason to leave this place as soon as possible and go without another look back.

Not the Joe who dug me out of the mud after Henrich's visit, who ran after me in the woods, who saved me from Schueller and his men, and then watched me kill Schueller without saying a word. Not the Joe who found me in that execution chamber and begged for my forgiveness and definitely not one who thought I was still worth fighting for.

 _That_ Joe was the confusing one, the one who was _so_ frustrating in his dogged refusal to see the writing on the wall. He was chasing a woman who was all but convicted and his intentional blindness to that fact was making it impossible to soften the inescapable pain my existence is going to continue to bring. Last night he had me off balance from the second he started reciting an apology like a he had practiced it a dozen times beforehand. As if he was the guilty one in all this, the man with a _bullet hole_ frighteningly close to his heart. If I wanted to continue kidding myself I would say that kiss was to shut him up, to clip his regret before it devoured him. I wanted him to know I didn't fault him and I didn't hate him, even if I was about to tell him our love was a lie.

It was rash. The only lies in that room were the ones I was telling myself and him to keep up with this foolhardy plan. Then he called my bluff and I couldn't do anything but watch everything fall apart with every disbelieving flash of his brown eyes.

Now he was trying to see me. The picture of us back in that conference room or, worse, sitting here at the little table in my room arguing and crying and trying not to let the bothersome feelings that refused to die wrest away control of my judgement again-

I can't see him. What purpose would it serve? I don't know what is going to happen today in the inquiry, but it is bound to be awful and Joe is going to be there to witness it all. Will it finally be enough to make him regret wasting so much energy on me? In the sleepless hours between our meeting and now I had accepted I was powerless to stop him, but I could still control this and prevent him from getting as close to me as he clearly wanted. If anything, his frustration at being stonewalled should drive him crazy and hopefully make him come to his senses.

The soldier clears his throat loudly, waving the pencil in my direction. Bowing my head in apology, I take it from him and mark a dark circle around _DECLINE._

 _It is for the best._

The soldier snatches the pencil and paper back before yanking the door closed. I hear the lock turn and I'm left alone to wait for more soldiers to arrive to take me to court. I sit back down at the table and my fingers are automatically picking nervously at the remains of toast left on the breakfast tray. I'd already washed in what used to be the en-suite bathroom when this was a hotel. That was before the door was ripped off its hinges and the tile was pried from the wall by whoever came through before the Americans arrived. But it had running water – the first I'd experienced in years – and that was good enough.

I had also straightened the blankets on the cot they gave me and wiped the crumbs off the table. My hair was neatly tucked into a bun and my dress was clean and with nothing else to do I'm afraid I'm going to go mad as the seconds drag by.

Under the single, nailed-shut window the radiator clicks in a steady rhythm. The toast is disintegrated when I finally give up and stand.

 _He is going to be there today and there is nothing I can do about it._

What were they going to show today? More propaganda photos? There were some yesterday, but most of the time was spent by the lawyers arguing about some technicality. Why couldn't Joe have been there then, when it was so boring even the spectators were leaving early?

Outside this building Munich is slowly coming out of the darkness as dawn creeps closer. The glittering, vibrant city I remember from my trips with Dr. Mueller and Henrich is nothing by a burnt skeleton now and the jagged edges of the debris stab into the violet sky.

Looking down, I see my torn fingertips pressing into the gouged wood of the window frame, making my hands ache. It joins the exhaustion to sink into the fibers of my muscles with an uncomfortable throb and I lean on the glass, feeling the early morning coolness against my feverish face. Like the crumbling bricks of the city I feel like I'm slowly disintegrating, falling and smashing against into the shadows while I wait for my fate to be announced. Hair falls out in clumps when I comb it. Injuries still jab with pain when they should be healing. The space under my skin hurts constantly and my joints felt swollen when I try to move. The last time I got more than a couple of hours of sleep was… when?

With Joe?

The lock rattles with another key and I pull myself away from the carnage to turn towards the door as it swings inward again. Two more soldiers enter, holding chains I gloomily recognize. In memorized German one of them tells me that I am to be transported to court. The commands have been repeated to me so many times already that I'm already turning back away, holding my arms out like they want.

Like every morning the one not holding the chains approaches to check if I'm trying to smuggle out any contraband. And like every morning I can't help but go uncomfortably rigid as he quickly runs his hands along the outside of my dress.

I don't breath again until he finishes, stepping back.

"Shoes," he orders. I grab the pair of heels that were given to me with the dresses and hand them over. He sticks his fingers into the toes and pulls up the insoles, finding nothing. I catch them when they are tossed back over to me and stuff my feet into them. Then the one with the chains comes over to loop one of them around my waist. A pair of iron cuffs are attached in the middle and my wrists are wedged into them. The one who searched me stoops to the floor and attaches shackles around my ankles, strung together by a second chain. Then the two restraints are connected together by the last length that is uncomfortably short until I almost have to stoop to avoid losing circulation in my hands. I understand the purpose of all of it – if I try to run I'm only going to break more bones in my face with this setup – but as the cold metal digs into my skin I reminisce about how fleeting my freedom with Joe really was. It was just a few days, but for those short hours I was unfettered by anyone for the first time _ever_ and the future seemed so open and… unburdened.

I should have appreciated it more while I had it.

I shuffle out the door, guided by a hand at my elbow. The men are relaxed and talk over my head at each other as we make our way to the stairwell at the end of the hall. I recognize them – _HANSON_ and _GRIMES_ are the names on their uniforms – but keep my eyes on the torn and wrinkled carpet. I've been treated well here for being imprisoned, especially compared to Dr. Mueller's ideas about captivity, but I'm not clueless enough to think I could be sociable with any of the Americans. I'm still a prisoner of war, albeit more cooperative than the others I occasionally hear shouting as they are hauled from their rooms. For that, I expect, I'm left alone and treated with detached distance.

Hanson grabs my other arm when we reach the stairs and between them I make it down to the lobby without tripping on the clinking chains. Outside, a paddywagon sits idling in the drive with its backdoor hanging open. I hear Grimes say my name to the soldier standing with a clipboard at the opening before both he and Hanson lift me up onto the short ladder to get inside.

The two benches that run along the walls of the cabin are already mostly occupied by other POWs, none of whom look familiar. The faces change as fugitives are arrested and brought here and deemed fit to be sent to Nuremberg, usually at a much faster pace than my case. But a common thread weaves through every one of them: they are all men and all wear suits that were obviously given to them by the Americans, with the shirt cuffs on some exposing wrists and pant legs on others pooling at the ankle. The skin of their faces is gray with resignation and wrinkled with fatigue as they slouch into themselves as though the wear of the hearings and trials has shattered their will to even pretend they were once important.

They are restrained like me and as always I carefully take a seat as far from them as the space allows. A few look curiously at me, a hint of recognition in the expressions of those who were knew of me and Henrich in our heyday, but no one speaks. There is no reason to make conversation. The atmosphere in here is close, thick with barely restrained dread that wraps around me until I'm turning my head back to the door to suck in a breath of untainted air. We all know we are going to end up at the end of a noose. After what we had done – whatever it was these strangers did – there was no avoiding it now.

The man with the clipboard announces something and two more soldiers clamber up the ladder to occupy the spaces on the benches by the door. With a sharp clap the door is shut behind them and locked. The cabin is dim with just the weak light coming from two open slats running along the edge of ceiling and utterly silent. Then the growl of the engine shifting into gear shudders through the metal cage and we move, heading out beyond the gates.

When we arrive at the shambling building holding the hearings a few minutes later everyone is slung sharply into each other as the driver pitches the truck around to the back drive. As soon as we stop the wagon is unlocked and the same process repeats in reverse: I'm hauled out, walked through the rear entrance to an office that has been turned into a cell by the large lock on the door, unchained, patted down, and left to wait once more.

A solitary chair sits underneath the bare bulb of the overhead light, the only thing in the windowless box besides myself. It totters on uneven legs when I gingerly sit on it, but doesn't collapse. In the hallway the sounds of the other prisoners being led to identical rooms fills the empty silence. My legs itch as I listen, bouncing up and down with stewing uneasiness. Was Joe already here? Waiting for me? Thinking that there was a chance I would walk away from this an innocent woman?

 _Why didn't he listen yesterday?_

I can't sit. The office is small and narrow but I get up anyway, pacing around the perimeter like a rat circling a too-small cage. I can see him in the courtroom, compulsively smoking cigarette after cigarette, his eyes tightening as he listens, his face blanching, and his disgust bleeding into his expression as he understands what I've done. He promised the world yesterday but he has no idea what he's walking into.

The walls are closing in again, reducing the cramped space even further. My mouth parts open and my raspy breaths break through the torpid air balancing heavily on my chest. I keep moving, circling and circling, and press my palm against the peeling wallpaper as I go like I could hold back the impending crush of weight. My fingertips drag against the exposed plaster, clawing dust to settle on the floor.

 _I can't stop him. He is going to hate me, again._

My hand slaps over another patch where the wallpaper had been stripped away. Terror – an ugly type that I had been trying to ignore, trying to keep under control – squirms through my head, making my legs tremble under the sudden indomitable pull of my own weight towards the floor. Gravity settles on my shoulders, stomping down with the desire to crush my spine like a young sapling in a hail storm.

I stop and without my shuffling the silence looms in return, thunderous in its thick mass. The wall is rough against my skin, unusually so, with a… pattern. I pull my appendage away, looking at the markings with burning eyes.

There are words carved into the soft plaster. Made by someone else locked in here, they are shallow and sloppy like they were scratched with a fingernail after the Americans took everything sharp away. The shadows of the light barely make them visible.

I read them, my stomach finally bowling up into my ribs and cold barbs breaking out along my skin.

Behind me a familiar voice drones through the door and a key digs into the lock with a loud scrape. My lawyer. It's time to go. The chair bumps against my hip and I grab onto it, holding myself up as I stare at the damaged, pained graffiti.

 _Our Fuhrer left us to the wolves_

 _We are going to die, aren't we?_

"Frauline Alsbach?"

The lawyer stands at the door, the translator chugging a cup of coffee at his side. I grip the chair, swinging around at the sound of my name and wobbling with uncertainty and nausea. Wordlessly I pry my fingers from the wooden seatback and shuffle towards them, forcing my stiff knees and numb feet forward out of habit and instinct than anything else.

He and the translator step back to allow me to exit. For the walk up to the room I only have to wear the wrist cuffs and as soon as the soldier accompanying them snaps them back on we troop towards the stairs as a group.

My thoughts stride through my head with the same beat as my feet on the steps.

 _Joe is going to be here today. There is nothing I can do._

 _We are going to die, aren't we?_

A foul taste fills my dry mouth and a headache blooms behind my eyes. There was _nothing_ to do other than sit there and take it. The muscles of my legs quiver as we reach the landing and the crowd milling around the hallway outside the rooms where more hearings like mine are taking place. The soldier at my side stops short when I hesitate, scanning the people for a familiar coffee-colored head of hair.

I don't see him.

The soldier's firm hand on my back presses me forward and I comply with the unspoken command, following my lawyer's retreating form and entering the press of more lawyers, witnesses, and onlookers. He takes my elbow before we are separated by the crush and uses a stiff arm to break a path ahead of us. People, in both uniforms and civilian clothes, make indignant noises as they are pushed aside that quickly turn into hard glares or outright sneers when they see it's a POW making her way through. They may know who I am, they may not. It doesn't matter. I've been arrested and that's enough to them to conclude that I'm a Nazi.

I can't argue with the truth and stare straight ahead as we force our way through, even as the soldier's pull in the jostle causes my wrists to pinch painfully against the cuffs. I'm just glad none of them spit in my face.

We break free at the door to my hearing room. It's closed, flanked by two more soldiers. My name is given to one that marks it on another clipboard while the other opens the door and takes over, guiding me into the courtroom.

Compared to outside the quiet that holds this place is tomb-like and it's like running straight into a brick wall in its instant disorientation. The door closes behind us with a latch that echoes through the silence and everyone turns to look at us at the end of the aisle like guests at a deranged wedding party.

I stomp down the desire to cringe, staring back at the faces. A handful of people occupy the seats and at that moment I finally see him.

A rope divides the onlookers from the tables of the lawyers and he is seated at it, directly behind my chair with his body turned so his back is to the officer who accompanies him and his view of the door is unobstructed. And now that I've appeared he has straightened and watches me like he did in that conference room yesterday. I feel his eyes sweep over me from head to toe, pausing just for my face and the restraints on my wrists. His lips thin as he looks at them but then he wordlessly raises his head to make eye contact with me again.

I can't move.

If he was provoked by my refusal to visit with him he doesn't show it. Lingering in the back of the courtroom, I study him as he regards me so intensely my bones feel the heat of exposure but I can't read anything else about him. The position of his jaw, the even line of his eyebrows, his focused but unexpressive gaze, the loose grip of his fingers on his knee… it doesn't tell me anything about what is going on in his head. An intentional insipidness, like he is hiding something from me, and that makes my apprehension freeze in my muscles until the soldier at my side has to take me by the arm and pull me forward. My leaden feet trip on the tile, sending me into a woman sitting in the chair near where I stood.

The woman startles. The soldier yanks me back before I completely lose my balance. The handcuffs clatter as I bounce against his side. Joe tenses. The pulsating pain centered behind my eyes floods through the rest of my head and I recoil, finding my equilibrium. And as soon as I do I turn away from Joe.

I can't look at him any longer or today was going to be worse than anything I endured under Dr. Mueller.

He doesn't do the same. The weight of his gaze follows me as I'm lead the rest of the way up the aisle to my chair. As the soldier unlocks and removes the cuffs I stare at the far wall, trying to ignore him just a few feet away. But still, in my peripheral the light bounces off the medals on the uniform he is wearing, a nicer one that I haven't seen him in before. I hear his level breathing in the stifling silence. I _feel_ him watching me.

He doesn't say a word.

Even after the cuffs are taken off and I sit, facing away from him, tension knots every thought I try to use to distract myself. I look at my lawyer's paperwork, although it's in English, but I find myself listening to the scuff of his boots when he twists to sit straight in his chair instead of reading. I study the door the men in charge are going to come through, begging for this to start and the wait to end, but before I know it I'm counting every inhale and resulting exhale I hear behind me. I pick at my brittle fingernails, but only feel his gaze burrowing into the back of my head.

The dark-haired officer is probably observing me too but I can't sense his presence as powerfully as Joe's. He consumes my thoughts and I'm hyper-aware of everything about him I can sense without actually turning around to acknowledge him.

I want to. I want to give him a final warning, to tell him to just _go away_. But if yesterday proved anything he isn't going to listen and confronting him again will just add fuel to the fire slowly eating its way through my sanity. So I remain facing forward, sweating bullets as the time ticks by agonizing slowly.

 _If I can't keep him away from here, I can keep him away from me_. I repeat that idea in my head over and over, even as his body directly behind me becomes a black hole my every cell wants to orbit around until I'm sucked into oblivion.

As if he knows it he doesn't speak, doesn't make a sound, doesn't even scoot forward to close the distance between us. He stays quiet and relaxed, just letting his existence slowly drive me haywire with questions and desires his aloof façade doesn't answer.

I think the translator notices. She is frowning as she observes my reddened face and she looks to Joe. Whatever she see there doesn't explain what tipped her off and she leans across me to whisper something to the lawyer. He glances at me himself, then mutters something in English which she lowly translates. "Are you feeling well, Frauline?"

Swallowing, I open my mouth to answer. Nothing comes out but a single malformed syllable. My hands fist in my skirt and my back aches from the anxiety wired through it. I snap my jaw back shut and quickly nod.

Joe's uniform rustles, his chair creaks, and then his breath is gliding past my ear. "Relax, Caroline."

The words are soft and as casually composed as the rest of his appearance, but goosebumps still race down my back and the air freezes in my chest. My lawyer sees Joe, scowls, and says something that sounds annoyed. Joe answers in louder, unaffected English and I hear him sit back.

The door I've been staring at opens and I nearly leap to my feet, standing before everyone else slowly follows. The three men conducting the hearing enter, wearing the same uniforms heavily weighed down by medals and ribbons. Two captains and a major, I've been told. Their faces are set in similar grim expressions as they take their seats behind desks facing the room. On cue everyone sits again and I gradually lower myself back down as well, conscious of him more than ever, until the prosecutor clears his throat and stands to begin his presentation.

 _There is nothing I can do. It's happening._

He starts by walking until his faces my table. His gaze levels on me, unwavering and so cold invisible frost nips at my exposed face. I don't try to hold his stare. _Joe is going to loathe me._

"Sirs," he says in a deep, commanding voice while not breaking his hold on me, "through nearly the past two weeks you have heard a story so unbelievable that were it not one of many incredible accounts to come out of this conflict you would be inclined to assume it was a work of fiction. A normal girl, not knowing any better, was turned into a Nazi proxy and did terrible things. On its face it is a sympathetic account, and I'm sure the defense will soon try to convince you that it is. They will tell you that she had no choice, that her life was at stake, and that we can't expect a twelve-year-old to reason with the capacity of an adult and resist the attempts to indoctrinate her. ' _She was just a child,'_ they will say. And I'm sure that Ms. Alsbach herself will describe how terrible it all was and how she never really believed it – after all, she did help a stranded American soldier despite the consequences, didn't she? Can we really make her culpable when so much that happened was beyond her control?" He pauses and shakes his head at me as if he were a disappointed parent. It makes me feel six inches tall and a lump grows in my throat as I stare at the tabletop.

Finally turning towards the judges, he continues: "But however pathetic she may try to appear, we must remember the evidence we have seen. The objective facts are what we must trust to determine guilt – the photographs and the records the Nazis kept of her activities. As you have learned over the course of these hearings, Ms. Alsbach and her countrymen are unreliable narrators. They are the losers of this war and are aware of the consequences they are facing, so they have no motivations to be honest in recounting history. It is always someone else's fault and that someone else is almost always dead and conveniently unable to testify, whether it be Adolf Hitler or Albrecht Mueller. So the onus is on us to parse what is truth and what is scapegoating, and the answer lies in what objective sources we have. I have presented many of those to you before now: you have seen Ms. Alsbach at rallies, giving speeches, signing autographs, or brainwashing children. She may tell you it was all under duress, but when the photographs and newsreels show her healthy, smiling, and willfully engaging in these activities which should you trust? Her word, or your own eyes?

"This is what we know and what is indisputable: Caroline Alsbach was a tool used by the Nazi regime to further their cause. She was essential to their childhood propaganda program and influenced an innumerable number of children in the three years she was active. _Truly_ innocent children, young enough to trust her and what she told them without the understanding to know she was teaching hate. How many of those still believe what she spouted? How many died in the last stand to save Berlin for what she convinced them was a true cause? But make no mistake that the damage she has done was limited to the defenseless. As the photographs demonstrate, she was popular among teenagers and, in particular, young men as well. She _told them_ to get rid of the Jews and, as you well know, they certainly listened."

He pulls no punches and already stomach acid is eating away at the back of my mouth. There isn't a whisper of sound behind me.

"But then Ms. Alsbach does have her trump card. She _tried_ to help the Jews, allegedly. I imagine those are going to be the first words out of her mouth if she testifies. But that is no vindication, despite what she wants us to think."

The projector comes to life in the back of the room and the first picture lights up the wall behind the prosecutor. It's Anne in a dirty frock, her hair in tangles and mud streaked across her cheek. She is standing against a wall, her eyes huge and dark on her pale face.

Everyone looks at me. My lawyer's hand shoots to my forearm pressed against the table, giving it a soft squeeze. I realize that I am wheezing with every breath, letting out a high pitched noise.

I stop. I think I am going to pass out.

"This is Anne Joselewicz," the prosecutor presses forward. "Born in Krakow, Poland in 1926, she and her family emigrated to rural Reichenwalde, Germany, in 1928. They lived there peacefully until 1937, when locals seized their home under the guise of Aryanization. Forbidden to purchase another, they attempted to return to Poland. However, at the border German officials seized their passports, claiming they were counterfeit due to the lack of a Jewish designation. Consequently in the beginning of 1938 they were essentially homeless and beholden on charity from other Jews while they went through the bureaucracy to regain their passports. After _Kristallnacht_ their efforts clearly became futile and they went completely underground as the situation deteriorated for 'undocumented' Jews, especially ones of Polish origin. By this time a network was developing to get Jews safely out, of which Ms. Alsbach's parents played an important part. Therefore, in the autumn of 1938, Anne arrived at the Alsbach home."

I'm glued to the chair, unmoving and staring at Anne's frightened face. She looks older than the eleven year old who laid in my bed, but not as thin as the sixteen year old I found at Kaufering.

"By this point Ms. Alsbach was a close associate of her future partner Henrich Lehmann, then a member of the Hitler Youth and eventually an officer in the SS. These two were so close, in fact, that he suggested her to Albrecht Mueller as a candidate for the propaganda program. Dr. Mueller's notes indicate Lehmann thought Ms. Alsbach was romantically interested in him and had made statements sympathetic to the Nazi cause and _Kristallnacht_ in particular. So then, is it just a coincidence that Anne's existence was discovered by none other than Lehmann, due to Ms. Alsbach's actions?"

"Objection," my lawyer proclaims, standing. "The prosecution is has not presented evidence to back up this conclusion. It's pure speculation."

In the beat of silence while the judges deliberate I strain my ears for some sort of clue of what Joe is doing behind me. I can feel him still there, can sense his eyes land on me every so often, but he doesn't lean forward again. My heart clenches with a sharp burst of pain.

"Sustained," the major answers. The prosecutor begins again without hesitating.

"The result of this discovery is that every single Jew in the Alsbach household, with the exception of Anne, was executed that night – eight in total, including Anne's parents. Ms. Alsbach's mother and father were arrested, and Ms. Alsbach herself was placed in Dr. Mueller's care as a supposed Jewish sympathizer primed for Nazification. Anne escaped by pure luck, but unfortunately it didn't last. She was arrested two years later in a French farmhouse, still trying to get to safety. This," he points at Anne, "is her arresting photograph. She was sent to the one of the Kaufering subcamps in the Dachau concentration camp system. There she would waste away for almost three years, until Ms. Alsbach came back into her life and finally ended it permanently."

The projector wheel moves and another picture appears on the wall.

The forest looks just as I remembered it. The sky was still clear blue, with the sun casting long shadows of late afternoon. They are still pressed up against the shallow depression where they tried to hide. His arms are still around her. The grass around them is stained black. Anne and Daniel, frozen in death.

The prosecutor hammers on, sounding almost pleased at the tears that are blurring my vision. "Ms. Alsbach found Anne at Kaufering during one of her visits, one where she also took _this_ photo." Another shudder of the projector. I'm standing by the Kaufering sign, a huge smile on my face. " _And_ this one." Me. Henrich. The commandant. Still _smiling._

"Anne tried to escape with a man she loved, Daniel Golvitz, and four other Jewish prisoners. Ms. Alsbach found out about the plan. She met them in the woods and gave them a car. And then…" He pauses for effect, his head tilted towards me. "Then she told the Nazis everything she knew. They were found within days. And this," the picture of the bodies appears again, "was the result. They died together, in each other's arms."

He stops, taking a long drink of water and letting everyone soak in what he was accusing me of. I feel the air of the room pressing on my hot face. I know what is going to happen. I wish Joe wasn't here, seeing this and realizing what I truly am.

"There are some questions, of course, that only Ms. Alsbach can answer. To give the car to the Jews, Ms. Alsbach had a camp lieutenant named Karl Rheinenmurh drive her to the meeting place. She then, interestingly, _killed him._ "

Another picture. Karl's body lying on a bed of pine needles, his head disfigured beyond recognition.

"Why would she do this? She was engaged the Lehmann at the time, so perhaps it was to cover up their illicit rendezvous? Maybe he somehow interfered with her plans? Maybe after killing her own mother she realized she just _enjoyed_ it?"

My lawyer stands again. "Objection –"

"Withdrawn. The second question is why she gave them a car if her objective was to get them caught? Why not send troops there to meet them in the first place? But where would the fun be in that, in this four-year cat and mouse game Ms. Alsbach has been playing with this girl's life?"

"Sirs!" My lawyer rockets upward once more. "This line of reasoning is without basis and, frankly, unnecessarily barbaric."

Behind me, Joe finally speaks a single phrase that is breathed in a low, stunned tone I still hear over the commotion of the lawyers. It's in English, but easy to understand. _"Jesus Christ."_

My head swims with nausea. Paralysis grips my body, stopping me from turning around to look at him even if I wanted to. Powerlessness fights with heartbreak to be the first to break me apart while I sit in this chair, a criminal and a Nazi. Now he knows. Now he has his regrets.

"That's enough of your conjecturing, Lieutenant Anderson," one of the commanding officers says. "Stick to the facts in evidence, like you have stated you wish to do."

"Of course, sir," the prosecutor responds, sounding more than satisfied that he had made his point. "The facts are these: despite her insistence that she never fully believed in Nazi ideology, Ms. Alsbach made anti-Semitic statements to Lehmann prior to her parents' arrest. She was directly involved in the discovery of the Jews in her household. She spent _years_ engaging in activities to support what the Nazis were doing. She gave information that led to the capture of the Jews that escaped from Kaufering. She showed no resistance when she was placed in the house outside of Landsberg and, despite being alone, engaged in no partisan activities until Corporal Joseph Liebgott was trapped behind the enemy line and used her home as shelter." The prosecutor turns back to me, his sight flickering between my face and Joe's behind me. "Due to Cpl. Liebgott's injury and subsequent hospitalization I have been unable to depose him as thoroughly as I would like, but according to his debriefing report his stay there was unremarkable. She made no efforts to contact any local partisan networks or get him back to the American side herself, despite his grave injury. And for reasons that, per your request, I will not speculate on, Cpl. Liebgott brought her with him when he came back across the line. We do know, however, that she did not enlighten Cpl. Liebgott of the nature of her past or of her Nazi activities. Furthermore, when given the chance, she crossed _back_ over the line and rejoined Dr. Mueller and Lehmann rather than make her way further into liberated territory - and _safety,_ if that was indeed what she was after. It is unknown what intelligence she may have gained to share with Mueller and Lehmann, but she was briefly housed in the command post for Easy Company, which should be viewed as a concern.

"Now," he directs his speech back towards the judges and waves his hand casually in my direction, "clearly something happened to her after she returned to the German side. The defense claims she was tortured for her betrayal, but we have no records or witnesses to corroborate that story. Rather, we have witnesses who saw her crawl out of a bombed building, covered in dust from the debris and _already_ injured. And we know she was found in her former training camp with Dr. Mueller. But in the room she was located she clearly had access to weapons and both Dr. Mueller and the other possible corroborator – a still-unknown German soldier – were also there, but dead in what she has said was by her own hand. So we can't confirm she was brutalized, but we know for a fact she was in a building when it was hit by artillery, she has no problem _murdering_ people, and she knows how to handle firearms. I don't know about you, but those characteristics do not strike me as belonging to someone who is a _helpless victim,_ and we can't let ourselves be fooled by her claims as such. If we do, what is to stop anyone from claiming to same? From self-inflicting wounds and telling us that they, too, were somehow mistreated? She should be punished for what she has done – what is proven in irrefutable black and white. To do anything otherwise is a disservice to the countless lives lost, such as those of Anne Joselewicz and Daniel Golvitz, as a result of her reckless and cruel actions."

It takes one hour.

Only one hour for the prosecutor to remind everyone of how thoroughly he has made me out to be a monster over the past couple of weeks and add the crowning touch – my disloyalty towards Anne. Karl's dead body is still splayed grotesquely on the wall. The room is deathly still. My dress sticks to my back with perspiration.

I can't hear Joe breathing any longer. It is an hour that has changed everything. A tremor shudders through my arms, ending at my hands and making them shake so badly I can't even grab my skirt to still them. The prosecutor sits, leans back in his chair, and nonchalantly crosses his legs, looking at the story he had woven with a victorious gaze. "The prosecution rests, Sirs."

The wall of silence behind me doesn't break. Blood pools in my feet. The lights glare in my vision. The edge of the table bites into my midsection when I lean forward, the ability to sit up straight fleeing with the intensity of the hot wash of sorrow painting my insides.

"Would the defense like to commence, or adjourn until tomorrow morning?" the major asks.

My lawyer lifts himself up. "We would like to adjourn until tomorrow, sir. We are still trying to locate one witness."

"Very well. We will see everyone here at 8AM tomorrow morning." With these words the lawyers stand, filing away their papers. I hear the dark haired officer whispering, but no response from Joe. Then more rustling behind me. Footsteps.

When I finally turn my head they are both gone.

Gone.

I'm alone.

* * *

"Caroline? Are you sure you are alright?"

I blink, lifting my chin to focus on my lawyer. We are in some meeting room in the courthouse basement. It's tiny and the translator's leg keeps hitting mine under microscopic table where we sit. It's hot and humid in here, making it difficult to breathe.

Joe finally knows about Anne. He's left me.

I drop my face back down.

The lawyer clears his throat and thumbs through some more papers in the edge of my blurred vision. "So tomorrow we are going to start presenting your case. Have you thought any more about testifying?"

Why is he still trying? Doesn't he know that none of this matters?

"Caroline? Are you listening? I can't emphasize enough how helpful it would be if you could tell your side of the story. Don't you want to avoid Nuremberg?"

I don't care if I go to Nuremberg. I'll get what I deserve there.

The lawyer sighs. "I'm going to take this as a _no_ to all my questions. I guess we will still have Corporal Liebgott testifying, although I still need to prep him."

Joe isn't going to say anything in my defense. He's probably halfway out of the city by now.

There is a rap on the door and a soldier sticks his head in, holding out a piece of paper and saying something in English. Still staring at me with exasperation the lawyer takes it and dismisses the soldier.

The translator drums her nails against the tabletop while we wait for him to read it.

When he looks up again, his expression has lifted and says something so quickly it's a meaningless buzz to me and the translator stumbles when she tries to relay it to me.

"Well, some good news finally. Henri –"

My head launches back up. She stops, saying something in English to the lawyer in a questioning voice. They go back and forth for a few seconds, not telling me anything. Not finishing _that name._

My palms collide with the table top before I know what I'm doing. They jump at the sharp noise, looking over to me.

"Henrich Lehmann?" I question intently, focusing on the translator. "Is he saying that he is calling Henrich Lehmann to testify?"

The translator conveys my words to the lawyer quickly, watching me carefully out of the corner of her eye like I am making her nervous. I ignore the look, scrutinizing them and pressing my hands into the woods of the table until my arms shake.

The lawyer nods. "Yes, he has been located and is being transported here. He should arrive in the morning."

I don't move. "Why? Why him?"

"Because he knows the truth about what happened to you. He can verify what you went through and your loyalties –"

A loud laugh interrupts him. It's from me. I'm abruptly laughing so hard that the wounds on my ribs immediately flare up with pain. Laughing so that it's impossible to breathe. My jaw aches when I open my mouth wide, falling back into the chair. Henrich, coming to save the day. What a notion. This lawyer is an idiot if he thinks Henrich is going to say one word to vindicate me. Isn't this _thing_ carved into my godforsaken arm proof enough that he isn't any _ally?_

 _…_ I was going to have to deal with that man _again._ Last time I saw him he nearly ripped me apart with his bare hands but that just wasn't enough. The years of torture I endured because of him just _weren't enough._ They think he is going to waltz in here and say whatever is necessary to exonerate me? Who do they think did all this damage to me? Just because the war is over doesn't mean he's changed. Isn't clear enough from my file that he is _my worst enemy?_

My vision narrows, blackness filling in the corners.

Joe left me, and now here is Henrich.

I _have_ been left to the wolves.

But I can't stop laughing. _Oh my God, this is just brilliant._ Is this what hysteria feels like? I've lost control of my body, even as the pain from my ribs grows worse. The tabletop smashes against my face as my head rolls forward, my hands tearing at my hair. Hiccups break up the piercing howls still emerging from my gut.

The translator leaps from her chair when I collapse and watches me with her hand on the doorknob like I'm an unpredictable animal she's been caged with. The lawyer says something loud and urgent and she bolts from the room.

Henrich is coming back. It's me and him, just like the good old days.

 _There is nothing I can do about it._

Vaguely I realize that I'm no longer laughing. Tears roll down my cheeks to puddle on the wood. Blood – _where the hell did blood come from? –_ smears across the surface as well. And I'm wailing. Oxygen barely has a chance to enter my lungs before I'm screaming it back out. The lawyer is talking to me, in fucking _English,_ with a voice that is soft and restrained like he is trying to be soothing. Trying to get me to stop, most likely.

But I can't.

He touches my arm and I realize he is trying to pry my hand off where it digs into the bandage covering the label Henrich carved onto me. The pressure has ripped the scab again and blood-soaked gauze drags across the table. I jerk away from him, convulsing, and I feel the chair tilt under my bottom. There is a clatter as it collapses over and I hit the floor, the impact furious and painful.

For a passing moment we are silent – him as he stares at me in shock and me as I struggle to inhale past the agony. I heave myself on my back and glare at him blackly. "I _hate_ Henrich _!_ " I scream until my voice cracks with a screech. "Do you know what he's _done_ to me?! Why don't you get it? _I want to die."_

The lawyer doesn't understand and shrugs uncomfortably, saying something else in English. It fuels whatever distortion clamps around my brain and my eyes roll in my head. The blackness clouds in thicker. " _I am going to –"_

The door bangs open and the lawyer narrowly misses being walloped by it. Soldiers crowd the entrance, pushing into the room and towards me. I shriek when they grab me even though I have no clue how it could change anything. Stiffening as they peel me off the floor, words appear out my mouth – loud and angry nonsense. Fear knocks my bones. Rage boils inside my skull. I won't deal with Henrich again. _I won't._

They drag me into the hall. A man in a white coat waits, holding a needle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A small mustache is above his lips and for an instant...one instant…

I freeze, gulping in air. The blackness crashes all around. " _You always were my best student."_

There is a prick on my arm. Seconds later I'm falling into a deep, dark hole that's appeared directly under my feet.

The last thing I see is Henrich's crazed face as he straddles me, waving the flashing knife. " _You'll always be mine."_


	49. Chapter 47

**I am terrible for making you wait so long. I know! I'm so sorry!**

* * *

The tobacco wasn't working.

Normally the euphoric burst of nicotine was a godsend, steadying his hands and steeling his fortitude to keep doing whatever the hell it was he had been ordered to do. Shoot. Fight. Freeze to fucking death in a goddamn foxhole. Luckies might as well have been important as oxygen and during those smokeless days at Caroline's he thought he was going to go nuts at more than one point while imagining the sweet bliss of that first drag. If she hadn't been there to distract him he probably would have lost it. Now she wasn't around and he was still waiting for the release Luckies always promised and it wasn't fucking working.

He took another long inhale, a cloud forming around him in the still air between the building he was leaning against and its neighbor just a few feet away. The skinny little alley he found was deserted save for some stinking puddles, the same bits of broken brick that were scattered across every inch of this entire damn city, and Nixon.

And he wished Nixon would just… _get lost._ Or at least stop fucking staring at him like he was about to blow his top.

The officer started to speak. "Are you sure that you're –"

"I'm fine, sir," he grunted into the cigarette that still wasn't doing shit for him. Maybe he got a dud. Maybe they ran out of tobacco and instead put fucking lawn clippings in it. He pulled out another, held it under his nose to check for the familiar toasted smell that meant it was real, and lit it with the dimming butt of his old one. Nixon didn't say anything else and they stood in silence as Joe crushed the worthless smoke with the toe of his boot and huffed on the fresh one with distracted ferocity.

He wasn't sure what he expected today. Caroline's terror at the prospect of him being there was a warning, sure, that whatever was going to be said was not going to be pretty. He never got that report he was promised by the analysts going over her file, so he knew there were some big holes about her in his knowledge that hadn't been filled yet. In the beginning he wasn't fazed by the propaganda nonsense the prosecutor went on about. After seeing her snuff out Schueller like a rabid dog he knew that the brainwashing was just the tip of the iceberg. He wasn't surprised any longer about the depth of her involvement. But this Anne girl? He saw Caroline's reaction when the prosecutor put her picture up and it immediately made him apprehensive. Guilt. Pain. He knew then that whatever was about to come out was what she had been trying to shield him from.

The tip of the cigarette regressed almost a full inch on a single pull as he thought about what he heard.

He had enough sense to take the prosecutor's version of events with a grain of salt. After all, the man was clearly gunning to get her sent to Nuremberg. His implication that Caroline and Henrich were an _item_ was proof enough that he was shading the whole situation with a very crooked pencil. But… why did Caroline give the Jews up? And that camp officer –

She _annihilated_ his head.

The gore wasn't what made him do a double take. He'd seen far worse in this fucking place. It was the _method_ of it… Close. Personal. Vicious. That level of hatred – Even he, or Sisk really, showed the _kommandant_ the door pretty quickly once they found him. And he stopped with Henrich once he got what he wanted. It was clear that the officer was dead far before Caroline finished swinging. Yet, she didn't.

 _Goddamn._

This cigarette was doing fucking anything either. What the hell was wrong? He pulled it from his lips, glaring at it like it was at fault for everything that had happened. It was quivering slightly in his grip. He threw it away with a snort of disgust and lit another.

"You're going to get nicotine poisoning if you keep doing that," Nixon intoned as he rested against the opposite wall, still steadily gazing at Joe with his hands in his pockets. "You have no problem running your mouth usually, Liebgott. Now's no time to change that."

Joe rolled his thumb along the rough wheel of his lighter and inhaled. He felt nothing. With a growl he ripped the cigarette away and slung it into one of the puddles, following it shortly with the carton still in his hand. It skidded and slid into the wall by Nixon's feet, scattering now-wet cigarettes across the concrete. "I have a bad fucking pack. You got any, sir?"

Nixon glanced down at Joe's outstretched, waiting palm and the shaking fingers attached to it. When he met Joe's eyes again he only replied with a single, quiet question. "You want to head back to Easy?"

Shit. Joe pulled his hand back, still flicking the lighter with his thumb, and turned away from that stupidly sympathetic and asinine look the captain was giving him. He faced where the alley met the street and the midday bustle of people and cars streaming by. There almost was a certain normality to the scene, he suddenly thought – women pushing trams and carrying shopping bags, men in hats and overcoats, cars honking. For a second it was so much like New York his stomach twisted uncomfortably. But in the end all he really had to do was look down to see his arm in a sling against his army uniform and feel the constant pang in his chest where _she_ resided to remind him that he was as far from New York as he could get.

"I know the prosecutor isn't giving the whole truth," he finally said. "I was with her long enough to know that this wasn't some sort of scheme. Caroline doesn't do ulterior motives."

From behind him Nixon didn't respond. Still watching the street he continued, "But with the escaped Jews and that camp officer… do you know why?"

"I don't," Nixon replied cautiously and Joe could feel his stare. "Mueller's records were not thorough in terms of what her motivations were. He focused on his own actions and goals and if Caroline met them or not."

Joe wasn't sure he wanted to know, but his lips were already moving. "Did he do something to her to get the information about those Jews – Anne and Daniel?"

The soles of Nixon's shoes scuffed against the ground and the sound loudly echoed through the tight space. "Do you really think learning about that right now will help you? You've heard what the _SS_ did in interrogations just like everyone else has. There's a reason people talk about it."

Joe bit the side of his tongue, hard.

Nixon fell silent for a minute before saying, "Honestly, Joe, I'm not sure what she gave them made that much of a difference. The escapees were likely exhausted and ill, and they had no idea where they were. After three days they were still circling around Bavaria, probably lost and not able to stop because the last place you want to ask for help is in the birthplace of Nazism. They had a long shot to begin with. We are learning about similar escape attempts at other camps and almost all of them failed. The Nazis were very good at what they did."

Joe blinked, tearing away from the crowd. He fell back against the wall, finally pocketing the lighter and using his freed hand to dig his fingers into the tense muscles at his temples. The pain medication they gave him this morning was wearing off and the wound was beginning to throb. "What about that officer?"

The one she fucking _decapitated._ God, even with the incident with Schueller he couldn't picture Caroline – _Caroline!_ – doing something like that.

"I don't know what happened there. Mueller only wrote that she killed him and how worried he was that the entire experiment was going to fail."

An embittered chuckle caused a sharp stab of pain to radiate from the bullet hole and he knocked his head back against the bricks, staring at the slice of gray sky above them. "He was, was he?" Fucking _asshole_ and all he did to her without even sparing a moment to consider how _awful_ it must have been for her _._ "Heaven forbid his grand plans go to shit! Nevermind the girl he completely _fucked_ in the process!" His hand tore through his hair, dragging off his cap with it. Clutching it in his fist he kicked off the wall, turning and pacing rigidly in the narrow space. _God_ , _he needed a fucking cigarette._ "He didn't give a damn what he and that _fucker_ of a lackey of his were doing to her! How can anyone be that evil? How can you take a _child_ and turn her into someone who shatters a man's skull _singlehandedly_?!"

"The victim was a concentration camp officer, Liebgott," Nixon reminded him carefully, his dark eyes following Joe's rapid swinging back and forth between the buildings. "It's not like he was innocent –"

" _That doesn't make it fair!"_ Joe interrupted harshly, stopping in front of Nixon. "He could have been Hitler for all I give a shit! The point is that the person who did that was _Caroline._ The Caroline I know may have shot Schueller but that nearly made her fall apart even though it was fucking justified. And it sure wasn't fucking like whatever the hell happened to that guy!"

Nixon squinted his eyes and slanted his head in confusion. "Schueller? What did – "

Joe wasn't hearing him. "If there was one person who was going to come out of this in one piece it was supposed to be _her!_ The one who saw a fucking American dipshit bleeding to death and risked her neck to help his worthless ass! The one who _apologized_ when that _same_ dipshit was going to fucking _execute_ her after Kaufering! The one who _still_ thinks she deserves everything that everyone has done to her! Goddammit, don't you get it? _She_ is the good one here. _She_ is the one who deserves better than this shit." He stabbed a finger at the building behind him. "Out of the two of us _she_ isn't the one who should be judged by those fuckers in there. And she _definitely_ isn't the one who could kill a guy like that. They did it. They perverted everything good about her until that fucking officer lost his head. It's their fault yet she is the one in there, answering like the blood on her hands was _ever_ her decision!"

He didn't realize how close he had gotten to Nixon until the officer laid a firm hand on his uninjured shoulder, pushing him a few steps back. His feet moved unevenly, his heaving breaths filling the quiet after his outburst dissipated. His heart was hitting his ribs hard, but whether it was from how pissed off he was or the amount of smoke he sucked down he wasn't sure. Maybe a combination of both. It didn't matter. His skin burned and he could feel his undershirt gluing itself to his back with sweat. The pain had reached his shoulder and branched down his useless arm, beating at his dwindling nerves. And then his eyes itched with a feeling he had come to despise. Son of a bitch.

He pulled away from Nixon's hold. "I'm sorry, sir," he mumbled, running the back of his sleeve across his face.

Nixon gave him a moment and nothing was heard between them except the traffic nearby. Then: "So what do you want to do?"

Joe bowed his head, acknowledging the question but not answering immediately. What he really wanted to do was grab her by the shoulders and look her in the eye until he was reassured once more that she wasn't a monster like this morning painted her to be. He wanted to tell her loved her and how he wanted to stop this madness. He wanted to bring Mueller back from the dead and do things that would _ensure_ that Caroline came out of this looking like the better person. He wanted to kiss her and never stop. He wanted to go back to Greta's house and break all of Henrich's bones just like he promised he would. He wanted to ask her what really happened those fretful years before he met her.

But most of all he just wanted everything to be a black and white again, as it was in those blissful few hours they had in that cellar.

Straightening, he shook out his cap and balanced it back on his head with fresh resolve. "I want to see her. A visit, regardless of whether or not she wants to be there."

Nixon nodded. "Only lawyers have access here, so I guess we need to find Lieutenant Smith."

* * *

They located the man in the lobby, standing off to the side of constantly rotating mass of people entering and leaving. His face was lowered and he was speaking to the prosecutor, although Joe couldn't hear him over the din of voices filling the space. His briefcase rested against his knee, held by a tight hand. When he registered their approach and looked up his face was curiously pale.

"Captain Nixon, sir," he greeted before sliding his gaze over to Joe. "Corporal Liebgott."

Joe only nodded in return.

The prosecutor checked his watch. "My next case is about to be called. Sorry I can't be more of a help, Lieutenant." With a nod towards Nixon, he turned and disappeared into the commotion.

Caroline's lawyer sighed with what sounded like resignation before turning to address them. "I thought you had left, sir."

"Just needed a smoke break," Nixon answered evenly. "Do you have a few minutes?"

The lawyer nodded. "My next case isn't until after lunch. I was going to find you, actually. I need to prep Liebgott for his testimony. I am going to ask for a continuance to delay for a week, but I don't think it is going to be granted so he needs to be prepared to take the stand tomorrow."

"A week?" Joe piped up. "Why would you want to wait a week?"

A consternated expression crossed the lawyer's face before he motioned for them to follow. "Let's find someplace quieter to speak."

He led them down a side hall, lined with what Joe could tell were more conference rooms like Caroline's. The lawyer stopped at one and held the door open. It was empty, with no sign of Caroline. Entering, he loitered uncomfortably at the end of the first row of seats, waiting for the other two to follow. The air smelled of paper and dust. Nixon fell in beside him, also waiting for whatever Smith pulled them in here for to become apparent.

The man in question let out another heavy breath and pulled off his hat to rub his forehead. "Since you left right at the adjournment I imagine you haven't heard what happened."

Joe stood straighter, narrowing his eyes. "What the hell happened?"

The lawyer shot an exasperated look at Joe's lack of decorum, but continued, "We were having a meeting downstairs and she had… I don't know. Some sort of mental break or something –"

 _"What?"_

"Like I said, I don't know what was going on. But whatever it was, it's concerning to say least. I'm going to ask the judges to give us a week for her to get back to normal, or at least well enough to not make a scene in court."

Joe stared at the lawyer, feeling the blood leave his face. Some sort of _mental break_? What the fuck did that mean? She went crazy and what, started talking to voices in her head? Or went totally catatonic?

"Where is she?" His voice dipped lowly and roughly. "What has happened to her?"

The lieutenant visibly bristled.

"Joe, relax." Nixon motioned to Joe's hand, which was gripped so tightly on a chair back that the wood gave an audible creak. As he focused on prying his fingers off of it, Nixon turned back to the lawyer. "Tell us what happened, from the beginning."

Smith cleared his throat, still observing Joe with a form of aggravation. "After we left the courtroom she was more glum than usual, but nothing that was completely out of the ordinary. After all, getting her to show any type of emotion is like pulling teeth. At least, until _you_ came along," he gestured towards Joe, "and did whatever it was you did last night."

"I didn't _do_ anything _,_ " Joe snapped.

"The evidence suggested otherwise, Corporal," the lawyer sneered in return. "In fact, whatever happened probably set the stage for her to lose her mind today!"

Joe started closing the distance between them. "Listen here, _sir,_ I don't know what you think you may know, but it isn't _shit –"_

"Enough, both of you!" Nixon stepped in the middle, pushing them both apart. "Joe, shut the hell up. Lieutenant, just tell us what happened _without_ your speculation about Corporal Liebgott, alright?"

Still glaring at each other, they both gave a mumbled, "Yes, sir."

Smith tugged his uniform to smooth it out. "I was trying to talk her into testifying but she wasn't responding. Then I got a message that a witness I had been trying to find was located and enroute to testify tomorrow. As soon as she heard that she went _nuts._ Pounding at the table, screaming in German, tearing at one of her wounds on her arm… she nearly scared the translator half to death. When the MPs came to secure her she fought against them too. They ultimately had to have the on-site medical staff sedate her." Joe stared hard at the man as he gave a weak shrug to Nixon. "I don't know what happened, but if I can't get the continuance we've got to figure out a way to get her to court tomorrow without it turning into a spectacle that will get her convicted."

"And you don't think the judges will grant the motion?" Nixon inquired.

"No, this has been delayed enough by discovery issues and the amount of evidence we've had to analyze. It's already one of the longest running inquires here, and they aren't inclined to drag it out any longer –"

Joe tuned out, thinking over what Smith had said. A witness – tearing at her _arm –_

"Was the witness Henrich Lehmann?" he asked sharply. The lawyer looked back over to him, his mouth opening with surprise. When he didn't immediately respond, Joe pressed forward. "The witness you got the message about. It was Lehmann, wasn't it?"

Another second of stunned silence, and then he got the answer he was expecting yet desperately hoped wasn't true. "Yes, it was."

" _Shit,"_ Joe hissed, sending an alarmed look to Nixon. "I thought you said he was transferred over to the Russians, sir."

Nixon looked just as flabbergasted. "After you dealt with him? Yes, he was taken in as a POW and when the Russians found out they asked for him. I would've thought he'd be in Siberia by now."

"He was being held in Poland," Smith said. "But I don't understand what is going on here. Why would he cause her to react like that? Mueller's notes don't indicate anything concerning about their relationship."

Joe shook his head incredulously. "Mueller and Lehmann were in cahoots to control her. What do you _think_ happened between them? I mean, who the fuck carved up her arm?!" Fuck, as this new fact rolled around his brain he could feel his blood pressure rising. Fucking _Henrich_ of all people was coming back – to testify in her goddamned defense! Who the fuck would think this was a good idea? Oh, that's right. _This idiot._ "You can't call him to the stand. Nothing good will come of it."

The lieutenant looked back and forth between Joe and Nixon, still clearly not getting it. "We assumed Mueller made that marking. Like everything else, she won't tell us what happened –"

"Well, it _wasn't_ him," Joe retorted darkly, growing more pissed off by the second.

"But I need him to establish what was done to Caroline to explain her actions. We've granted him immunity from American prosecution, so there is no reason to think he would lie."

Joe let out a loud guffaw. "Here's a reason: he's a total _piece of shit._ He'll help Caroline when it's a cold day in hell. You can't let him testify."

For that the lieutenant sent him a haughty look. "That's not your call to make, Corporal."

"Do you want her to _actually_ lose her mind?" Joe's voice was getting louder and Nixon stood up from the chair he was leaning against. "Do you want to see her swing at Nuremberg? That's what will happen if you put that son of a bitch on the stand. _Don't do it."_

The lawyer didn't back down and narrowed his eyes on Joe's face. "Give me a concrete reason why I should listen to you. What do you know?"

Pursing his lips, Joe paused before telling him, "You need to ask her."

"She isn't going to tell me anything, especially since she's going to be knocked out for a while with the amount of sedative they shot in her. So you need to enlighten me about what happened between the two of them that apparently no one but you knows." Smith looked questioningly at Nixon as if he had the answers, but Nixon only shook his head. He turned back to Joe. "Talk, Corporal Liebgott. That's an order."

"It's not my place to say. _You need to ask her,_ " Joe repeated with a scowl.

"I'm asking _you,_ Corporal."

The only reason Joe didn't give him one big fucking middle finger was the rank hanging off his collar. So instead he set his jaw and leaned his hip against the chair back, settling in for one intense staring contest. There was no fucking way he was going to spill the worst aspects of her history to this moron. That felt like it would be just another betrayal in the wretched history he and Caroline had together, and given how thin the ice underneath their feet was now he couldn't bring himself to risk their relationship any further.

The lawyer glared daggers back.

Nixon interjected, breaking through the tight and tense air between them. "We know that he was Mueller's right hand, right? So he had to at least have been involved in Mueller's terrible treatment of her. If he carved that word in her arm we can safely assume that he had no problem doing whatever else to her – the 'pain modification' Dr. Mueller mentions several times. So there is at least that to consider. I agree with Liebgott in that he is not going to be an impartial witness."

"What would he have to gain now by falsifying his testimony?" the lawyer answered, finally switching to focus on Nixon. "The Russians are going to make sure he is never a free man again. The only thing I could offer was that we wouldn't add an extra layer of misery to his existence by subjecting him to trial over here as well. None of his compatriots are still alive – at least that we know – so he can't leverage clemency for anyone else. Do we really think he is that psychopathic that he would go through all this just to torpedo Caroline?"

" _Yes,"_ Joe snarled. "He is a complete lunatic and a fucking _sadistic_ bastard too! He would probably like very much to screw Caroline over one last time!"

"And how do you _know_ this, Corporal?" the lawyer shot back, his aggravation leaking into his tone. "I can't do anything with the worthless information you're giving me! Are you going to be _helpful_ here, or just be a huge, foul-mouthed annoyance?"

"I told you I was going to testify!" Joe argued in return. "I'll say whatever it is I need to say to get her off. You shouldn't need Henrich to testify after I'm done. So call him off."

Smith blew out of breath of air and lifted his face to look at the ceiling in apparent frustration. "Do _not_ perjure yourself here, Corporal. In military law the consequences are much more severe than in a civilian court. I expect you to only tell me the truth during questioning."

"When did I say I was going to lie? The truth is enough to get her off. I saw her in that house. I heard what all the Nazis were saying to her. I saw her after they kicked the shit out of her," Joe responded. "What more do they need?"

"But you didn't _see_ them do that to her, correct? She was already outside and trying to escape when you saw her in the village. And Dr. Mueller and the other involved soldier were already dead when you found her the second time. If you never actually saw them assault her you can't testify they did. And repeating things she told you about her treatment is just hearsay without evidence, which is inadmissible."

"Well, I fucking saw Henrich do it," Joe muttered brusquely, rubbing his eyes as that memory rose once more - her, wordlessly pleading with him from the rain-soaked ground. A shiver of anger and pain dug through his thoughts sharply, warning him that seeing that blonde bastard again might lead to foolish and regrettable decisions on his part.

As the lawyer heard his low proclamation his head jerked back forward. "You saw them harming her? How? When?"

Joe bit his tongue, intentionally ignoring the questions.

"Oh my God," the lawyer wiped a hand over his face. "Do you understand what I'm up against, Corporal, and how hard this case is? How do you expect me to save her life if _neither_ of you is willing to cooperate?! Tell me, how to do you think that is going to happen?"

Joe didn't answer. Truth was, he didn't really know. He wasn't the fucking legal expert here. His loyalty was to her, not this asshole. But the honesty of the man's words wasn't easy to dismiss. What the fuck _would_ happen if she didn't come around? If he couldn't overcome her insistence that she was a criminal deserving of capital punishment? What the fuck then, indeed?

"Joe," Nixon said softly, "Lieutenant Smith is right. We don't have a lot of options here."

"What do you expect me to do?" Joe shot back with a tight shrug of frustration. "I won't betray her again, even if it is just her confidence." He looked towards the lieutenant again. "We came to find you because I want to see her. She refused my request to visit at that hotel – or whatever you call the place you are keeping her – so I need you to facilitate it because she has to go to legal conferences."

"Why on earth would I do that, especially after yesterday?" Smith answered.

Now of all fucking times he was going to go back to that? " _Goddammit_ , yesterday was –" Joe stopped and took a breath. "Look, you want her to be in her right mind tomorrow, yeah? And for us to talk? Let me visit her and I promise I'll give it my best shot to make both those things happen."

"Last time you were alone with her she ended up completely out of it and in tears. Why would this time be any different?" the lawyer asked suspiciously.

Joe forced himself to take another calming breath. His shoulder throbbed but he paid no attention to it. "Yesterday was the first time we had seen each other after all this shit happened, so you need to understand that we had some _issues_ to get through that weren't all that pleasant. It's… complicated, more so than you can imagine. But today is different."

"Yet she didn't want to see you this morning. That is not a good indicator to me that I should in any way help you here," the lawyer continued doubtfully.

Joe sprung off the chair. "Would you just _fucking_ … Jesus!" He turned away, going back to pacing like he did in the alley. "Look, you are just going to have to trust me. I don't have the time or inclination to try to explain our whole history to you. Your ultimate goal here is to get her to testify in her defense, and for me to spill everything I saw while I lived with her. You have had months to convince her to tell her story, and it looks to me like you haven't gotten anywhere. I'm your only hope right now, and you know it. You need to agree to this."

The lawyer pursed his lips, glowering at Joe but acknowledging that he was between a rock and a hard place. "Fine. But I want to be in the room."

"No way." Joe stopped, shaking his head. "She isn't going to do anything with some strange American looming over her."

"I won't be _looming,"_ Smith sniffed, "and I don't understand German. So you will still have privacy, but I want to supervise any interaction between you two after the disaster last night."

"I'm telling you, there won't _be_ anything to supervise if you are in there. When has she ever been comfortable with you?"

"She seems to be more so than when she is left with you!" Smith retorted.

Now it was Joe's turn to curse in vexation. Why was this guy being so goddamn difficult? There was no other option. He had to talk to her. "You can wait outside, okay? I'll leave the door open. You hear anything you can swoop in to her rescue. Fair enough?"

The lawyer's lips tightened into an unhappy pucker but he finally replied, "Fine."

Joe was already starting to walk to the exit. "Great. Let's get the fuck going."

As he pushed the door open into the hall he heard the lawyer grumble to Nixon, "Is he always such a jackass?"

"Yeah," came Nixon's easy response followed by the sound of a cap unscrewing. "Want a swig?"

* * *

They took separate cars to the hospital. The lawyer said it was because he needed to leave early for his next case, but Joe had a feeling it was more about wanting to avoid being in close proximity with him any longer than needed. At least they agreed on that one thing.

Nixon maneuvered through the crowds of pedestrians, civilian cars, and chugging army vehicles carefully, leaving Joe content to look out the window. He was playing with his lighter again, drumming it steadily against his knee.

"Do you know what you are going to say to her?" Nixon asked after they travelled a few blocks, not taking his eyes from the road.

 _No._ "I'll figure it out."

"You remember your promise to me this morning?"

He stared at the people on the sidewalk. "Yes, sir. I'm not angry at her. She's got nothing to be afraid of."

"What about what happened in the alley after – "

"I got it out of my system, I promise." It was Henrich who had a target on his back as far as Joe was concerned. Not her. "Thanks for letting me yell, though, sir. I meant no disrespect."

"Of course."

They traveled another mile or so before Nixon spoke again. "Last night, when we were talking in that hallway, you said something that caught my attention… It was… Well, you said, ' _I still regret that you wouldn't let me murder the man who has done that shit to her.'_ "

The lighter stopped halfway to Joe's kneecap. He had forgotten about that. Shit.

Nixon turned a corner, stealing a glance at Joe in the meantime. "I am guessing you were referring to Lehmann?"

The answer was obvious, but Joe still found himself hesitating. He was angry last night and all wound up from what happened with her and is stupid fucking mouth got away from him. And now it was out there, goddammit, and out of his control. His mind desperately spun, trying to find the right words to throw Nixon off track, but came up with nothing other than a ridiculous _No, it was some other asshole I've beat up for her._ So he didn't answer, continuing to stare straight ahead in panicked silence.

The captain seemed to take Joe's reaction as confirmation before Joe could think to do anything else. He nodded to himself, his mouth becoming a grim line. "She needs to talk, Joe."

The clouds had been building heavily all morning and as the hospital finally came into sight in the distance drops of rain began to patter against the windshield. He watched them splatter at the edges, merging into one another until gravity finally dragged them down to be smeared by the wipers. "I know."

The rest of the ride was quiet, each man lost in his own thoughts.

* * *

The room the nurse led them to was dark and silent. As Joe stepped past the MP guarding the threshold, leaving Nixon and Smith behind to wait in the hall, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. The curtains on the window at the far end of the space had been shut against the storm, blocking even the weak light from outside. The first thing he saw was four cots lining the opposing walls, two at each of his sides. As shadowy shapes slowly began to come into focus he saw that they were all empty save for the one in the far corner to his right. A small form was lumped under the blankets, undeniably her.

He pulled at the door until it was open only a few inches – enough to appease the shithead lawyer – and just a thin beam of light from the hallway cut across the room, crawling along the floor and up across her figure. Single chairs were positioned next to each cot for visitors and hers was no exception. As he made his way towards it he waited to see if she noticed the sounds of his footsteps or his encroaching presence, but she didn't move. She was facing away, towards the covered window, and he snatched the chair to drag around to the other side so he could see her.

She was curled into a tight ball, with her knees nearly to her chin. One arm was tucked against her chest, but her other was stretched out by a pair of handcuffs chaining her wrist to the cot. It was the same arm Henrich had fucked up and he glowered at both the bandage and the cuff. Restraining her while she was unconscious didn't seem fucking necessary.

He sat, not attempting to wake her up. For one, he wasn't sure if he could since she had been sedated. And two, it probably wasn't a bad idea for her to get some sleep. She looked worse than he did, although with decidedly fewer bullet holes in her body. Even now, while she was resting, the circles under her eyes were heavy and dark and the splash of bruises across her face were stark against her pale skin. A thin line of worry still creased the space between her eyebrows. Even if she was being treated alright and if that hotel-place was comfortable, he couldn't imagine the strain of being a POW and watching people try their damndest to condemn her to death. And that was on top of her raging guilt and the mess going on between them.

So he waited, listening to the tapping of rain behind him, watching the soft rise and fall of her shoulders, and thinking of anything and everything. At first he centered on Henrich and the fury his imminent arrival stoked in Joe's gut. Then he thought about what the hell he was going to say when she awoke. And after that he thought about her, about the time at her house that now felt like a dream and about his tenuous ideas of what the future could hold if everything turned out like he hoped. Of course this automatically raised questions about the other possibilities waiting out there – conviction, Nuremberg… the loss of what sometimes felt like the last hope that he could go back to the States a better man than the one he was when he left.

As he watched the lines of her body merge in and out of the faint beam of light falling across her he thought about what she meant to him and who she made him want to be. Unlike last time there wasn't Henrich's blood drying his uniform and the heavy mass of worry aching in the middle of his body was about an entirely different set of circumstances. But the question remained the same: who was he? And whatever that answer is, was it enough?

He always wished that he had been blessed with his mother's sense of patience and empathy, but of course he could never be so lucky. Instead he was given his father's temperament – hot, short, and horrible. That gift was nurtured by those little terrors at school until he thoroughly believed that the world was painted with an ugly brush and his mother's sense of compassion was a bitter weakness that ultimately left her miserable and dead. The ice that eventually encased his heart sustained him, but it wasn't any comfort. By draining the already shallow pool of his humanity it only served to keep him at arm's length from the world, alone in his own cloud of discontent. It made him kill – it made him slaughter – but every mark on the butt of his rifle only made the fragility of his damaged psyche that much more apparent to both himself and everyone around him. After just a few days of being at war he could understand why his father disappeared into the bottle, why his mother desperately clung to her hope that things could get better someday, and how it was so easy to retreat from a life that could be so difficult that just waking again every morning was a disappointment.

That time was the closest he ever came to understanding why his childhood was the way it was and why his parents were the way they were. He hadn't heard from his father since he left, but for those bleak few months they were closer than they ever were while living in the same home.

Then, she came. And from that moment everything he had resigned himself to being was awash with the color of hopeful uncertainty. He found that he _cared_. He wanted to live. He wanted to return to the US and get a house with a picket fence and a dog and have a couple of kids and live a life so different than the one he had until now that it couldn't be anything more than a ludicrous fantasy. He wanted _her,_ so badly and so resolutely it was like a whole new person emerged inside of him, one he was still getting acquainted with.

He discovered that wasn't his father – and he wasn't doomed to the same fate. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life regretting the opportunities he didn't take and the poor choices he made that resulted in unrelenting years of despair, anger, and alcohol. He wanted to be something better. He wanted to make her smile, make her laugh, and make her happy. He wanted to make this place a distant memory for both of them and offer her a chance to live a life that wasn't tinged with the unspeakable past. To prove, to both himself and her, that their survival here wasn't a mistake and that it meant something.

He thought these things, in the peaceful darkness, as she slept on under his steady gaze. Nixon stuck his head in once to let Joe know that the lawyer had to leave for his next case, but otherwise he waited silently, at her side, finally realizing exactly what he was going to tell her.

* * *

A soft clink of the handcuffs against the cot frame was the first sign that she was stirring. It was mid-afternoon and he could still hear rain falling outside. Nixon had disappeared a few hours ago, saying something about some pretty-looking nurse, so only the MP still stood outside. He sat forward in his chair cautiously as her arm moved again and the cuff encircling the metal bar rattled more loudly, making her give a disgruntled frown and twitch her closed eyelids. Her legs stretched out, popping her knees, and her free hand unconsciously scratched at the bandages on her face. Her eyes drifted open for a moment, then slid closed again.

"Caroline?" he called softly and her movements stilled. Her eyes snapped back open and she blinked rapidly in his direction, confusion deepening her frown.

"Joe?" she croaked out, her voice thick with sleep and the fuzziness of the drug.

In the poor light he could see her focusing, struggling to make him out and determine if he was real or just a figment of her imagination. He reached out, wrapping his hand around the limp fingers chained by the cuff and giving her a reassuring squeeze. "Yeah, it's me."

"What… Where…?" She faltered, blinking some more. He kept his hand on hers as she rolled her head around, looking at the room she was in, before her stare returned to him. "I'm… in the hospital," she concluded.

"Do you remember what happened?"

She swallowed, squeezing her eyes shut again. A look of pain crumpled her face. "Henrich is… They told me… he is testifying."

"Yes, it appears he is."

After a moment she gave a sharp breath and faced him, her gaze going over his appearance and descending down to where he held onto her. "You're still here."

"I told you I would be."

"I didn't see you after… I thought you left."

"I'm not going anywhere."

There was a long stretch of silence as she stared at their joined hands, her throat working with an emotion he couldn't place in the darkness but became apparent when she let out a hitched breath. Before he could react she rolled on her back, her free hand coming up to wipe frantically at her eyes and hide her face from him. "I don't understand why," she whispered into her palm.

He slid further out on his chair, until his knees rested against the cot. "Can I tell you something?"

She kept her eyes covered, but he caught the slight nod of her head. He licked his lips, taking a final moment to gather his thoughts and suppress the nervousness that was unconsciously tightening his grip on her fingers. Jesus, maybe he was making an enormous mistake.

"…Did…" he stopped, his mouth going impossibly dry. Inhaling deeply, he tried again. "Did you know that I was an only child growing up? …My father was an abusive drunk and my mother died when I was six. I was one of the only Jewish boys in my grade and the other children tortured me mercilessly about it at school. I was beaten up all the goddamn time. I had no friends, no parent to speak of, and no hope. The only way I could figure out how to survive was to run and hide and try not to care. When I finally got big enough to fight back I actually found out that I… I didn't mind it so much. I kind of liked brawling. I wanted my revenge. I can't tell you how many of their noses I broke or shiners I gave. Since I always tried so hard to not care, I didn't feel a drop of sympathy for any of them. That eventually morphed into a… a _nastiness_ that I didn't mind having. And when I joined the army I figured that I had found a place where I could be as mean as I wanted. After all, my only job was to kill Germans, wasn't it?"

She didn't answer his rhetorical question, but dropped her hand and twisted her head to watch him, her face hidden again in the shadows.

"The night we dropped into Normandy I landed in the wrong spot, so I had to find my way alone to where my unit was. I killed three Nazis before I got there. Two were with my rifle but the other one… I didn't hear him and he surprised me. We ended up fighting hand to hand until I gutted him with my bayonet. I left him alive there on the ground, his innards coming out of him, for no other reason than I didn't give a shit if he suffered. He was crying in agony, and I just… walked away."

Fuck. An unpleasant feeling sucked through his stomach as he listened to his own words. This was a gamble. A huge one. She remained so still he could barely see her breathing and he could only guess at what was going through her head. So, letting go of her to run his hand through his hair in uneasiness, he continued.

"The next day we had to take out a German artillery position that was firing on the men landing on the beaches. I was assigned the machine gun, and from my position I could see almost every soldier down my sights. The combat was only for an hour or so, but I killed twenty three of them. I kept count in my head as I fired, as I watched the blood spurt out of them and their bodies going limp. It didn't feel real, like it was any different than target practice. These weren't _people;_ they were just numbers and I got a great score. It was like that in every battle, and it only got worse as my friends in my unit got killed, one after another. Last autumn we had made it into Holland and by then I was so _hateful_ I was even beginning to scare myself."

His fingers worried the edge of the sling. The pain in his shoulder had gotten better since he stayed still for so long, but he irrationally wished it would start up again if only to distract his thoughts from the terribleness he was trying to convey to her.

"One morning we launched a surprise attack on a company of _SS_. We caught them out in the open, sleeping, eating and shit. They were completely unprepared and we crushed them. But, after it was over and I was facing down a field full of injured men, I couldn't stop. Even though they were no longer fighting I stayed prone, aiming for and killing any of them I could tell were still breathing. One of them tried to crawl away and despite how many bullets I shot into his body he just wouldn't _stop,_ and…"

A door slammed loudly down the hallway, interrupting the vision he was teetering on the edge of and making his voice die in his throat. Why the hell was he doing this? He shouldn't be telling her… shouldn't be _showing_ her who he had been. Who he _was_. Verbalizing what she had already suspected of him – what she had seen of the monster he could be – might be doing more damage than good. He pinched his tongue between his teeth, staring at the far wall instead of her.

She wasn't saying anything. He should stop. He should apologize and leave her in peace. But the words started coming out again before he realized it, his brain seeming to operate on a different level all on its own.

"By the middle of January I hardly knew who I was anymore. We had been stuck in the woods for weeks, freezing, running out of food and ammo, and fucking dying in artillery bombardments. One of the best friends I ever had got blown into pieces. There wasn't anything left – he was just fucking vaporized. One second there and the next just a stain in the snow. He had a girl back home, and he was so in love with her. Talked all the time about how he was going to marry her and all that – " He stopped, swallowing.

"We eventually took the town of Foy. Me and this other guy – his name was Hale – were clearing a barn. We found six _SS_ officers inside, and they all surrendered. We were going to search them for weapons when one of them tackled Hale and cut his throat. I shot the officer in the head, killing him. Hale was still alive, laying on the ground trying to breathe and bleeding everywhere. I had to help him. So I shot the other five. Killed them too, even though they were cooperative and had their hands up. Just… killed them. I didn't think about it, didn't regret it. Hale made it, and that's all that mattered. It was the same with the Nazi you found outside your place. I wasn't going to fucking starve in a POW camp, so I took my knife and I laid him open. I even used his uniform to clean his blood off the blade as he lay dying there, _looking_ at me, just before you came around the corner. But I was free again, and _that's all that mattered."_

His head lowered, until he was looking at his limp, useless hand and his lap beyond it. When he spoke once more his voice felt like sandpaper in his mouth. "You should know I would have done the same to you, had you made a single wrong move. Screamed, escaped back outside, told Schueller… any of it, and I was going to kill you that night. And later I almost did, as you know, twice. I held a gun to your head twice, my finger tight on the trigger and ready to have your death on my hands too."

She still didn't say a word to him. His courage waned and he didn't look at her, afraid of what he would see even in the bad lighting. Sorrow. Revulsion. Regret. Any of those would simply break him.

"After we found the camp things got even worse. I abandoned you to your worst enemies. I found a Nazi living in Landsberg and threw him out a window to splatter in an alley below. I hunted down the _kommandant_ and had him executed. I went after Henrich to discover where you were and tortured him until he told me. I shoved Greta down into your cellar and locked her there, in the darkness without food or water, until some GIs got her out a couple of days later. She probably lost her mind because of it, but I don't know for sure."

He paused again. _Listing_ all of the shit he had done made it sound even worse than he feared. He wanted to smoke but didn't dare break his concentration to dig out a cigarette. If he stopped now all she would know is how terrible he was, which was not what he wanted to accomplish. "…I once warned you that I am not a good person. The man you saw that day Greta discovered me? The one who killed those soldiers with Schueller? Like you can see it's always who I've been, and until now I never had a desire to be anything different. You are so terrified that I am going to be revolted by what _you've_ done, but the truth is there is no reason for me to be. All the people I've hurt and killed…I don't have the justification that I was manipulated and threatened. I did it because it was my choice. I betrayed you that night in the woods, and it was something I consciously chose to do. A good person would have been loyal enough to give you a chance to explain. I didn't. Honestly, the question we should be asking is why you want anything to do with me, not the other way around."

He risked a glance up at her. "That's the truth about who I am, and that's what I want you to know. This whole fucking… _mess_ over here hasn't left many of us with a clear conscience, but I don't view what has happened to you and what you've done as evidence of who you are. The girl in those photographs would have been calling Schueller as soon as I passed out from the fever. She would have run away with Greta as soon as she got away from me that day in the yard. She certainly wouldn't have cared about me like you do. She would have known I am an asshole and left it there. By the same token, I don't want to _be_ that asshole any longer. I want to be a good man, for you. I want to be forgiven, someday, for everything that has happened, and hopefully somehow learn to forgive myself for all my mistakes." After a moment's hesitation, he reached out again to grasp her hand. She didn't shy away, much to his relief. "Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you, Caroline? You don't have to be afraid any longer. I am not going anywhere as long as I can be with you. I appreciate if what I told you today upset you and makes you want to think things over, but you need to know that I understand what you did and what happened to you. I'm still here and… I love you."

It wasn't until the foreignness of that phrase rolled off his tongue that he realized that he had never spoken those words before. She had, but it was always just before they were separated and he never got to return the sentiment. Remorse tied around his heart as he concentrated on where his fingers wrapped around hers and the weight of his sentiments settled over the both of them. It made him feel exposed and vulnerable, triggering his automatic desire to tag the end of his speech with something off-hand or stupid to reduce the heavy honesty that made his feelings uncomfortably defenseless. A ' _for what it's worth'_ or ' _despite the fact that I'm an idiot'._ Either of those would hedge this agonizing wait for her to respond.

But he didn't. He reconciled himself to the silence, even as his imagination readily came up with the worst possible scenarios that could play out. She was going to be repulsed by him, or she was going to continue down this path of trying to keep him out of the trial like he never said a word… or she had fallen back asleep and he had spent this whole time talking to his fucking self.

After a handful of excruciating minutes that had him wondering if he _should_ in fact check if she was awake, the handcuff rattled again and her hand untangled from his to wrap around the side of the frame. She pulled herself up to sit and he drew back, giving her space. She swayed a bit when she came upright, and the light finally revealed part of her face. She looked at him, her mouth pulled downward and her brows drawn together. It made him feel queasy and he watched her carefully, gearing up for whatever she was going to tell him.

She twisted, moving her legs over until her feet were on the floor between his and she was fully facing him. She sat there, the light illuminating her loose hair from behind, and looked at him in a way that made him feel like a spotlight rested on him. "How long have you been waiting here? For me to wake up?" she asked him, barely above a whisper.

It wasn't a reaction he was anticipating and he fumbled. "Uh… a few hours? I mean, since this morning, after I heard what happened. Your lawyer was an ass about letting see you, but I came over… as soon as I could?"

He hadn't fucking meant to answer like he was asking a damn question, but his apprehension wrapped around his neck like a vice and he didn't know what the hell he was doing. If she could give him some idea of what she –

Grasping the edge of the cot again, she shuffled towards him and he froze. When her knees were firmly nestled inside his she slowly reached forward, grasping the lapel of his uniform jacket. He looked down where the wool bunched in her fist, not quite believing what he was seeing. If her other hand wasn't locked to the cot he might've assumed she was about to punch the shit out of him, which wasn't too far outside the realm of possibility considering what he just told her.

But then she did something totally unexpected. She leaned, bringing their bodies together, until her forehead rested against his shoulder and her face was buried in his neck. He moved stiffly, his hand clamped down on his knee, still not sure what he should do nor what she wanted. Nevertheless, as she settled against him he couldn't help turning his head slightly to press his nose into her hair. She still smelled wonderful, even after all this time.

She sighed, her breath tickling his ear, but stayed where she was. He held still, feeling her touch warm his skin, until she spoke again. Her lips brushed against the scar from the potato masher and an involuntary shiver went through him. "I'm sorry for putting you through this. You were right; I was trying to protect you. I didn't do a very good job of it though, and I'm so sorry -"

"I guess it's my turn to tell you to stop apologizing," he murmured into her hair.

She took another deep breath. "You've done so much for me – "

"We're even at best, darlin'," he cut her off once more. It sounded like she was going to start another bout of woeful atonement and that isn't what he wanted to come out of this.

She fell quiet and he sensed her chin working against his collar bone. But, to his dismay, he suddenly felt a shudder shake her and the streak of a tear hit his skin to race down to his collar. Shit – he had made her cry _again._ He knew he shouldn't have told her all this crap. She wasn't ready for it. With everything that is happening, why did he think it was a good idea to dump his torrid history on her as well? Goddammit. "Caroline -"

"I love you too, Joe." Her quivering, muffled voice reached his ears and he stopped, his mouth still hanging open in confusion.

"Then why are you crying?" he questioned.

Giving an uneven breath, she quietly replied, "Because this isn't supposed to happen. I don't deserve it."

His reaction was instant and instinctive. "Of course you do."

"But they are dead _because of me."_ Another tremble shook her.

"Caroline." He grasped her shoulder, carefully pulling her back upright. She looked at him, her eyes red and filling with more tears. "They are dead because of Henrich and Dr. Mueller. Remember that. No one else is responsible for what happened besides them."

"I could have –" She tried to argue but he gave a rough shake of his head.

"What? Walked in front of a bus? You put up with all the shit they did to you and still defied them. You lived in that farmhouse far longer than anyone expected. You handled the worst aspects of me without blinking. You never stopped running when we made a break for the line, even though you were exhausted and beat to hell. Even now I don't believe you really want to go to Nuremberg. You have an indomitable will to survive, Caroline, and that's what I admire most about you. You never stopped fighting, and I wish you wouldn't now. There are other ways of moving past this and coming to terms with yourself besides being executed."

Her face crumpled, unleashing another torrent of tears. "How can you be so sure?" she demurred, wiping again at them with her soaked sleeve. "Sometimes it feels as though I'll never find redemption, because how can someone like me go on to live a happy life when all the people I've hurt will never get that chance?"

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it into her hand. "I'm not sure," he said softly. "But I do know that before I found you I never thought I'd make it back to the States alive. Why? For the same reasons – after all the bloodshed I caused there was no way God would let me live to see the end, let alone allow me to be lucky enough to actually love someone someday. You changed that. There was a reason we found each other, and I think this is it."

"You really think there is still a God out there?" She was talking down to her legs, her voice stifled by the handkerchief she clutched to her red nose. "Even after this? Do you know how many Jews were killed here, Joe? By a group people I was a part of? How can you still love me?"

He rubbed his own forehead, her questions landing uncomfortably in the middle of his chest. A low growl of thunder rattled through the building, joining her soft sobs filling his ears. Dropping his hand, he stared at the blonde strands on top of her bowed head, making his decision. "There is something else. During the coma I was in, after I was shot getting you from –"

Her sobs grew louder and her handcuffed hand squeezed at the cot frame until her skin turned white. "Joe –"

He lightly touched her knee. "Let me tell you this. When I was in the coma, I… well, this is going to sound crazy but I… I believe I was visited by my mother."

Caroline's head sharply rose until he could see her watery blue eyes. "Your mother?"

He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Yeah, I know how it sounds and I wasn't planning on telling anybody about it because I didn't want to get sent to the looney bin. I didn't actually see her – just this spot of light, kind of – but I heard her talk to me and she used to have this particular perfume she wore that I could smell. It may have all been just the coma fucking with my head, but I'm pretty sure that it… that it was her."

"What did she say?" Caroline didn't seem disturbed at all that he just proclaimed that he talked to a ghost. Instead she wiped her eyes with the cotton again, looking to him.

"She told me to forgive. At the time I didn't know what specifically she was talking about, but since I've woken up I've thought a lot about it. All those people that made me a pissed-off, miserable guy – I need to forgive them if want any hope of someday being happy. And I have to forgive myself for everything that occurred here. I'm still working on it – there is a short list consisting of guys like Henrich who will never get my mercy and, well, you can imagine how I feel about myself– but I'm trying. You never had any reason to be afraid of me being at the trial because I stopped blaming you a long time ago. Life isn't going to end here, Caroline. What happened did happen, but I took her visit as a sign that there is some greater power out there, and wallowing in the past is not what it wants. You tried to help Anne and Daniel. You saved my life. Those are not things to be discounted in how you view your worth."

He saw her bite the inside of her cheek, her gaze roving over his face. He shifted in his chair, the dreadful apprehension of being so… so _bare_ skirting through him again. There it was – all out on the table. He was a cold-blooded killer. He loved her. He talked to fucking dead people. He, of anyone, was trying to convince her of the virtues of goddamn _forgiveness,_ of all things. He never felt so exposed before.

Finally, her lips parted and her faint voice drifted over to him. "I thought you were an asshole."

He nearly twitched with nervousness. "I told you that once, yes, but I'm trying to change."

She looked back down to where her fingers played with the edges of his handkerchief. Her shoulders rolled forward and she closed her eyes for a moment, looking exhausted. "But I fell in love with the asshole. You can't start changing the rules on me now," she sighed.

"Changing the rules? What do you mean?" he replied bewilderedly and she looked back up at him. Then, slowly, for the first time he saw her mouth turn in a faint, tired smile. It was weak, but it was there and with it he felt the release of the tight knot hovering between them like air coming out of a balloon about to burst. When she spoke again her gaze returned to her hands, but the slight upturn in her lips remained.

"I mean that the last thing I expected was you to be here trying to help me like this, let alone convince me to have hope for the future. It doesn't sound like the man I knew back at my farmhouse. That guy was a complete jerk, and I loved that about him."

He gaped at her.

She had stopped crying. She was kind of smiling… Was she... Was she _teasing_ him?

After the gamut of emotions he had been through the last few days he wondered if he a reached a point where he was totally incapable of figuring out her body language and she was only going to cry some more if he tried to make a goddamn joke at the most inappropriate time. But when she considered him once more, still with the tiredness lining her face and the bruises turning sickly colors, her eyes were steady and without the… the… _defeat_ she had been wearing like a second skin from the moment he saw her again. Hope – yes, this was _hope_ – surged into his veins with a gleeful brightness that made him want to fucking grab her and kiss her senseless.

Licking his lips, he decided to assume the best about that smile. "Would you… would you like me to throw in a few more curse words? Would that help?"

To his elation, her shoulders pitched with a small chuckle and she pressed the handkerchief back to her eyes to catch the few tears still lingering in the corners. "It probably could. You don't mind starting over, do you? It might be a little more realistic coming from you if every other word was _fucking_ or _goddamn._ Otherwise I couldn't believe that I am in love with someone so… so…"

"Philosophical?" he supplied.

"Stubborn," she finished, "and maddeningly optimistic."

"I know the optimistic part might be a bit of a shock, because it kind of is to me too." A piece of her hair had fallen forward to hang in her eyes and before he could over-analyze his response he closed the distance between them, reaching up to tuck it behind her ear. His fingertips traced along the bandage taped to her jaw to her throat and he lingered on her pulse there, his heart doing somersaults against his ribs. "But the stubbornness sounds about fucking right, as well as _maddening._ Ask that jackass who's your lawyer."

A laugh, a real one, finally lit up her face and he felt himself smiling like a goddamn fool, but he didn't care. "What did you do? Be yourself?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Like you said, I might be an asshole at times. Some people may be more deserving of it than others."

"But you forgive him, right? Because that is what you do now?"

Now it was his turn to snort with amusement. "Sure, every goddamn day it seems like. Mother should be pretty pleased up there."

"So are you going to be nicer to him?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I said I was working on it. He just might be a lower priority than some other people."

She shook her head at him, that beautiful grin temporarily erasing the fatigue from her features and making her dimples crease her cheeks, and tilted her face into his hand.

"I've missed you, Joe," she whispered.

"I've missed you too, darlin'," he responded back. At that moment he cursed the splint and his useless arm because he wanted nothing more than to crush her to him and never let go ever again. Instead he had to be content with holding her face in his palm. Drinking in her features for the countless time, he allowed his thumb to feather down and skim along her bottom lip. At the sensation her mouth automatically parted, her tongue darting out to wet it. The sight hit him hard and he steeled his jaw before he said anything ridiculous, soundlessly riding out the swift wave of desire that flooded every muscle in his body. Likewise, he saw a flush rush up her neck and color her cheeks until they radiated warmth. Her eyes darkened as she held his gaze and she licked her lips again, seemingly oblivious to how it nearly sent him over the edge. He touched her mouth once more, using the tip of his thumb to tug slight at her bottom lip while holding her chin in the rest of his hand. He felt her breathing pick up, and she swallowed roughly.

"I want to be with you, Caroline, after this is over." His voice came out simultaneously tight and breathless. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you and I will fight for you with everything I have… I need to know that you will do the same. That you will fight for yourself, and for us. Please, darlin'…" He wavered, the idea of her still resigning herself to be executed so terrifying and awful that –

"I will, Joe. I promise you." The words were barely out before she snatched his jacket again. As their lips met – and his hand captured her golden strands and her essence invaded his nose and his legs tangled around hers and her chest pressed against his and just before his heart simply exploded – he knew one thing: _it_ had been worth it. Of all the shit he had been through and all the bitterness he saved up and all the pain he had felt – without it he wouldn't be here, pulling her back from the brink, and she wouldn't have been there, saving him from the depths of his own darkness.

Their relationship hadn't been by any measure conventional or easy, but as he embraced her to him he knew _it_ was worth every single second.

* * *

 **So, yeah, this chapter has a crap-load of dialogue. That, plus the increasing emotional complexity of the plot, meant it took me forever to write because I am not so great at either of those things. Give me sarcastic, wise-ass Joe any day because that stuff basically writes itself. Heartfelt, romantic Joe? That's not so much in the BoB characterization that we know and it is a biiiitch to make it sound remotely realistic (at least to me). I am so, so sorry it took so long and thank you so much for your patience.**

 **Emily - Thank you for your review :)**


	50. Chapter 48

**Warning: some crude language/content ahead! Henrich is still a jerk ;)**

* * *

It's easy to give up, I thought. To convince myself that there is nothing left but my own continued existence in a vast vacuum of nothingness. A long stretch of days, without the relief of happiness or contentment or love. Just nothing – a dark prison of time rotting away the will to continue, at the end of which is the realization that the actual punishment is the curse of memory and blame and death is only a brief mercy before the gates of Hell swing open in welcome. With the weight of eternity stacked against me, what purpose could possibly be found in doing anything other than surrender to a fate so clearly predestined that even the notion of trying to change course was merely a temporary distraction?

This is what I reconciled myself to. During all this time I spent in one kind of cage after another, this was the conclusion I inevitably drew. Any flashes of hope – that my exile to the countryside would mean freedom, that what happened between me and Joe there could erase what I had done – were bludgeoned and buried before I could even understand what they were.

But what could I do now? When everything seemed so…pointless…it was unnervingly _easy_ to let them do whatever they wanted to me. When Joe was only a painful and raw memory it seemed sensible to lock him behind door after door, until the ache was dulled by the hard layers I buried him under.

Then he came back, again and again. He wasn't giving up, and it was hard not to listen when he implored me not to either.

Why? When did he become the patient and reassuring one? Doesn't he grow tired of chasing me from the brink? Of loving someone he always vowed to hate? Why did he decide the man who once wrapped his hand around my neck, a single movement away from squeezing the life from me, was the one who was wrong and… and _change?_

Now, when his lips are on mine it seems like the world is at our feet, ready and waiting for us to take a first step. But as soon as we part reality always comes crashing back in, all the uglier from the temporary reprieve. He's a Jewish-American soldier. I'm a Nazi. What hope could there possibly be? Why would fighting now make any difference when it's the past that is going to condemn me?

But I want to. He pulls me closer and holds me tighter and, God, how I want to fight. Our histories – marked by hurt, blood, and shame – always tied us together. Always slung us into one another despite how hard either of us tried to run in an opposing direction. Maybe we were meant to meet that cold, dark night on the road. We were drawn to one another, inescapably, by the shared misery we each carried like a knife stabbed directly into our backs, the blade buried deep between our ribs to scrape at our organs with every breath.

This idea that he out of anyone can yank it free from me and finally stop the hemorrhaging of despair, and that perhaps I could do the same for him, was so new and tender I'm afraid to think about it too hard or else it would fall apart too. Joe is grabbing my fingertips as I plunge from the precarious ledge that is my life and now I hang here, looking up at him, and deciding whether to let go once and for all. And grabbing ahold of him, pulling myself back up to him, is so risky. To think of anything other than the noose waiting for me at the end of this was more dangerous than loving him in the first place. The prosecutor condemned me this morning and the man who violated me in every sense of the word is going hammer the nails in my coffin tomorrow. Would it be foolish to follow Joe into this illusion that I have a chance? To have wishes that are destroyed yet again would be so much more excruciating than simply… freefalling. Silently and painlessly to the brutal end.

But… if I listen to him and hear the helplessness he teetered on the edge of, it makes every pulse of my heart ache with the desire to give him just a moment of peace. Does my own sense of futility even matter when this is so important to him? If this is what it takes – giving our best shot at an open-and-shut case – to make him happy then what choice do I have? I would do anything to save him from the pain of this grinding process. It was misguided to drive him away, but on the other side of the coin was the notion of keeping him close, knowing that we were trying to stop the speeding train of conviction together, to give him the best outcome I could out of this. I'll never be forgiven for what I've done to my parents, Anne, and Daniel, but if I could use my last days to make Joseph Liebgott happy then there really wasn't a way to say no, was there?

He understood the unrelenting gnaw of pain and the permanent shadow lurking underneath every thought. Despite knowing who I was and he faithfully stayed at my side. There was no one else in the world who could look at me and, instead of disgust and scorn, smile at me like I was the only thing that mattered. I have never encountered someone like him before and I don't think I will ever again. If I have more than a few weeks to live I would want to spend them with him, relishing every touch and kiss he could give me. If I don't, at least I could give him the hope he so desperately desires.

A vague sound nudges in on the sensation of his lips on mine, his hand around the back of my neck, and his heart thrashing under my fingertips. He doesn't let go, and I neither do I.

The light flicks on, making us both jump. Joe pulls away first, blinking in dazed surprise. My lips tingle as I loosen my grip on his uniform, and I take the first breath in what feels like days. The sound comes again: someone is loudly clearly his throat. Joe looks towards the intruder, annoyance bleeding across his startled expression. I try to find my voice and cough, watching his brows flatten as he recognizes who interrupted us.

My lawyer is at the doorway, looking unamused. Joe grumbles something in English that doesn't sound polite and begrudgingly stands to greet him. The lawyer tilts his head towards me and asks a question in an expectant tone to which Joe responds with something that sounds like he isn't keeping his promise about forgiveness. They go back and forth, both sounding increasingly irritated with each other at every sentence. Finally, the lawyer points at me and says something firmly that makes Joe sigh. When he looks down at me again I can sense his reluctance about whatever they had discussed before he sits once more. The lawyer comes closer but stops before he reaches my cot and stands mutely, watching us at a slight distance.

Joe places his fingers across the back of my hand in my lap, drawing my attention back to him. He licks his lips, almost grimacing, before meeting my eyes. "He wants to know what Henrich did to you…" he tells me carefully.

An icy fist immediately encircles my stomach. "What?"

"…to convince him to not let Henrich testify."

Spit gathers at the back of my throat and I try to swallow but can't. "W-what else is there to know? Dr. Mueller's files should be enough. He was one of them."

Joe's jaw clenches and he looks away, sending a glare towards the lawyer, for a long moment before his eyes meet mine again. "Dr. Mueller didn't write about the… the _other_ things he did, Caroline. Henrich's file paints him as a Nazi who happens to be your fiancé. Not… what he actually was."

The bar of the cot suddenly digs painfully into my bottom. I lean to the side, away, taking my eyes off him and the knowingly look his held. "And… what was that?" It's a chance to play dumb, to give myself an out if we weren't talking about what I thought we were. What no one was supposed to know outside of the hellish circle me, Henrich, Mueller, and Greta made.

He watches me, not responding, and the loaded silence forces me to turn backs towards him. A shiver violently chases across my skin unexpectedly. The frozen hand squeezes, shooting up bile to sour my mouth. My face goes numb and cold. I never told Joe this. The day Henrich came to visit certainly implied something, but as I see Joe's expression slowly crease with a mixture of distaste and worry I can tell he knows _more._ And that thought flails around in my head, twisting in the sudden shock like a panicked animal on a leash.

I look at my lawyer, who watches us with his arms folded and an impatient look on his face. He's waiting, waiting for – "You can't…" Words leave my lips, fading in strength. The overhead lights glow brighter, burning my eyes. The cot feels like it is rocking on the ground, unsteady and swaying. "There – …You can't, Joe."

"Can't, what?" he asks quietly, moving his head to catch my blank stare towards the other man. I sluggishly focus back on him, the feeling of cold fear climbing up the back of my neck to burrow into the base of my skull.

I hear myself speak. " _Know_." And then I am shaking my head, feeling the god-awful realization pound against my brain. _Ideas_ and _implications_ – things he may have gotten from seeing Henrich and I together – were terrible but safe enough. There weren't enough dots to connect, and that meant I could hover in the safety of the empty spaces of his knowledge. The thought was so appalling and horrible that he would never voice it, and I would never have to confirm anything.

But his shoulders are drooping and his pained gaze falls guiltily to rest on where our knees touch, and I realize there is nothing to confirm. It has already been done, long before he came here. And now that knowledge is no longer mine to secret away in tormenting silence. The things that had happened… the things done to me… were no longer my own to control. My own history has escaped from me and found him to reveal the last thing I hoped to keep away from him – to pollute the last unmarked part of our relationship.

 _He knows._ He won't look back at me because he knows and that means nothing is left untouched between us, even my own virtue.

I rocket to my feet, nearly hitting him with the unsteady motion. The handcuff slides down and cuts into the base of my hand, the chain going taut and yanking at the cot until it scrapes against the floor tiles. He says something, but I can't hear him over the panic that encases every word shrieking through my head. _He knows_. I yank at the handcuff and the cot skates around to smack into the leg of his chair. He jumps up, grabbing at my bruising wrist being strangled by the metal ring. "Caroline -"

 _"You can't know_ ," A sob breaks across my voice and the room blurs. Henrich's mark feels like it is gouging deeper into my forearm as I pull against the chain imprisoning me here, with a man who has found out about a secret almost more debauched than the others and another who wants all the terrible details. "That was - What he _did_ -" Again, the words seize in my throat, tangling in a barking cough. It feels like my chest is collapsing inward and I stumble forward, my knees hitting the floor hard. The cot tips, clattering on its side. My stomach twists and a hot bitterness fills my mouth. I cough more, trying to inhale past the burning that consumes my insides, and feel both of them stand over me, dumbstruck. Across the room the door is shoved open. Another voice calls over in English and I slowly raise my head to see the soldier who had been standing outside. He looks at me, stretched out with the handcuffs next to the collapsed cot, and steps inward, alarm forming on his face. One of his hands goes to rest on the baton on his belt while the other points behind him to a pensive nurse hovering in the hall, holding a small tray that I can tell has another needle on it.

I can't stop coughing. The itch claws at my lungs, familiar and sore. Tears trail down my hot cheeks. _Not again._

The nurse steps into the room, keeping behind the soldier. He is talking with the lawyer, looking tense and alert as his eyes constantly trail back to me. The lawyer gestures wildly, sounding flabbergasted, and throws me a cagey glance over his shoulder too.

Joe crouches at my side, ignoring them, and grasps the edge of the cot, tugging it closer and easing the biting tension in my wrist.

I look back at the others. The soldier is motioning towards the needle.

"Don't let them drug me again," I gasp, barely even hearing myself. "Please, Joe, I don't want to be put back to sleep."

He rests back on his haunches, his eyes shadowy with anguish, before he slowly nods. His hand traces up my arm from the cot, squeezing it gently before he stands. I hazily hear him join the group, his tone cutting through theirs with a sense of finality. My chin drops to my chest, drooping under the sudden punch of how much has happened since we were separated that horrible night.

 _He knows._

The voices rise and I know they are arguing. My eyes are swollen and gritty, but when I try to close them all I can see is Henrich ogling me, feeling his hard grip tear at my clothes and his weight crush on top of me. A choked wheeze escapes from my mouth and in the distance the arguing stops, but I only curl further towards my knees on the floor, not looking at them.

What does he think of me now? How does he feel knowing that someone he loves is… _defiled?_ My arm hugs my aching chest and the lines of the floor blur. The images make my limbs itch with the urge to fight back, to destroy the face smirking at me, and I feel myself start to rock with the growing bite of my vulnerability. The loud click of the door closing rings in my ears and the room falls silent with the exception of my struggled breaths. Then footsteps start towards the sink in the corner of the room, and water runs.

How can he know? How can he expect me to tell everyone?

Snot drips from my nose and I swipe it with my sleeve, trying to inhale past the tightening band crushing my ribs together.

It has to be Joe when someone settles beside me again and a hand eases through my hair, pushing it to the side. I lay still as cold rag is pressed against the back of my neck and held there. Thunder stirs outside, rattling the falling silence but not breaking it. I watch the teardrops splotch across my dress. He stays beside me, his hand resting lightly on my back, waiting patiently. As the soothing coolness works its way through my hot, pounding headache and the strained burning in my chest slowly starts to ease, I finally hear him softly say, "I didn't intend to find out."

The words to respond don't magically appear in my brain and after a minute of more heavy silence he continues, "I mean, after I saw how he treated you I had some questions, sure, but I wasn't trying to pry when I learned about it. He let it slip."

 _When?_ When were he and Henrich _ever_ in the same room?

Another rumble of thunder sounds outside and I feel his eyes studying me. "They left your file behind, in the schoolhouse. I found it after the battle. I didn't… I read the first page that talked about your arrest, but… I couldn't go much farther than that. It was difficult…" He stops for a stretched second, but can't seem to help himself. "The idea of how wrong I had been and that I had to get you back was all I could think about, Caroline. I didn't care about the rest. I still don't, not really."

The cold, rough tile makes my knees ache but I can't look at him and stay put, elbows resting on the floor with my hands digging into my eyes. His palm cups the back of my head and he shuffles closer, until his legs are brushing the side of my thigh. "I didn't know where Mueller had taken you, but I figured Henrich did. After Mueller took off with you Henrich tried to fight me, but I shot him and left him in front of the school, injured but alive. When he didn't show up on the casualty or POW lists I knew he had to hiding somewhere, trying to get help for his wound. Greta was the logical choice. Sure enough, I found him at her house."

He seems to hesitate at the next part, his fingers unconsciously flexing against my hair. I drop my hands. "What did you do?" I finally say, my voice raw in my throat. I don't take my eyes off the floor when he shifts uneasily, not responding. It's the same tension he had when he told me about the men he had killed. Another shudder climbs up my body and my fingertips press into the muscles of my thighs. "…What did you do, Joe?"

His fingers clench again and, blowing out a breath, he finally answers. "He was so full of shit, Caroline, despite hiding in a goddamn old lady's house. He tried to fight me again when I found him, and wanted to _argue_ about how you were his and that you came back to him. Not even fucking sorry – he still thought everything he had done was perfectly reasonable. Even when he told me that he had fucking carved up your arm. He _laughed_ about it, as if it meant he won something. And I… had enough of that bullshit."

My stomach tightens and I force my eyes back shut. I knew enough about Joe to guess his reaction to _having enough_ , especially with a Nazi like Henrich. I decide then that I don't want the details. What he had already mentioned – _torture –_ was more than enough. I don't want to know more about the depths of his cruelty, even if Henrich was the most deserving of anyone. Our ability to use violence as a weapon without any qualms is a stain on both of us. Part of me is surprised that Henrich made it out alive and although I sometimes wish nothing more than to see him punished for what he did to me, the vision of Joe being the one doling it out, giving in to the darkness inside of him once more, on my account was not something I wanted to be reminded of. The very thing we were trying to move past hung over us now: an unspoken sense of retaliation. Even Joe seems to know it, hesitating again with the gruesome details.

"What did he say?" I finally ask. "Not…the circumstances. Just tell me what he told you. Exactly." I needed to know the words verbatim, to judge how far my disgrace had been shared.

It takes him a minute, but when his low voice reaches me he does what I ask. "' _I don't know why you are even doing this. She wasn't that great in bed anyway. Dead fish even when she wasn't fighting me.'"_

He says it unaffectedly, without question that it's a direct quote. As though the words were burned into his skin as clearly as _Meine_ was cut into mine.

"Oh God." The nausea that had been lingering on the edge of my consciousness, held back by sheer will, crashes through and the room spins. I try to keep breathing, pressing my palms into my feverish face. "Oh, _God."_ I'm talking in a strange pitch, high and reedy. My heartbeat skyrockets in my ears. Why don't I sound normal? Why do I feel like I'm drowning?

"Caroline –" His voice echoes, sounding as though he were at the end of a long tunnel. There isn't enough _air_ in here. "Caroline, you need to calm down or you're going to pass out."

"I-I'm…" _Trying,_ my mind says. But my body isn't cooperating as it suffocates in this oppressive room. _He knows._ Humiliation and an overwhelming sense of shame come in right after the panic, making themselves at home in my splintering thoughts. My vision shimmers in and out and the blackness – the ominous and familiar blackness – claws at what is left, promising a reprieve from the boiling turmoil burning me alive. I try to breathe through my nose, to stop the gasping and coughing, but it feels like a weight has attached itself to my body and is slowly crushing the oxygen out of me.

This is almost worse than the exposure of being a Nazi. For that I shouldered the blame for what I did and prepared myself for everyone's repudiation. But _this –_ I could never stop Henrich from taking what he did and the _degradation_ he brought me made me want to crawl out of my skin… _and now Joe knew_. And I can't _breathe._

* * *

 _Sunlight, when it breaks through the clouds, is brief and weak. Wet, heavy snow makes the roof creak and soaks my stockings when I hike to the water pump. The nights linger unendingly, unwelcoming and deadly silent. Christmas has passed, but it was just another stretch of time like all the days before._

 _The house is warm enough this year, however, so I don't have to wear my coat indoors. The hours and hours I spent over the summer and autumn dragging fallen logs back here and chopping them with the ax were worth it now that the air instantly freezes my flesh as soon as I step outside. It was a hard lesson learned this time last year._

 _The garden is dead, a victim of an early and vicious frost. The forest is silent and empty. Dr. Mueller hasn't increased my ration stamps again for the winter months and my gray fingers now lay flat against the breakfast table as I'm looking at the empty cupboard and feeling the presence lurking behind me. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air, thick and venomous._

 _"He isn't going to do it. This is part of your lesson," he says, clicking his tongue with disapproval. "He helped you last winter, but you still haven't done what we wanted. He isn't so charitable this time."_

 _My stomach sucks in low below my ribs and I imagine I can feel my spine. I haven't been this hungry since that room empty of anything but books and my own treacherous thoughts._

 _I don't want to go down this road again, here in another isolated and unforgiving prison._

 _He moves, a black figure morphing at the edge of my vision. His boot thud against the floorboards and laughter sounds outside, coming from his men lingering in the yard._

 _A ration card lands on the table, full of neat rows of stamps. "I, however, take a different view. You are of no use if you are dead, after all. You are clearly stubborn enough to dig in your heels and stay here even though you know things are only going to get worse for you. I imagine you would starve yourself just to prove us wrong."_

 _His fingertips press the card against the table. "And we don't want that, do we?"_

 _The fire pops in the hearth and the flames lick at the tea kettle I had set to boil just before he arrived. Everything feels tight inside my skin. He doesn't give gifts. Strings are attached to everything he does. "What do you want?"_

 _White teeth flash in the gray light coming through the window. "Your cooperation."_

 _Steam rises from the kettle spout, evaporating into the chimney. "I'll never marry you."_

 _His fingertips blanch as he jams them harder against the table, but his voice is controlled when he answers. "That's not what I'm talking about."_

 _My teeth clamp together and I taste blood on my tongue. The chair I sit on creaks loudly. Under the table my knees crash together so hard I feel the bones knock against each other. "No," I hiss. "Never."_

 _He's sneering when he answers. "You want to go hungry instead? Really?"_

 _His black presence is closer, leaning over me until his overpowering cologne replaces the air to breathe. I start to stand. "Go to hell –"_

 _Before I can straighten his hand darts off the ration card to latch on my forearm, slamming it back down on to table and making the legs wobble unsteadily. The edge bites into my hip as he yanks it towards him, pinning me flat against the surface._

 _A gust of wind throws fallen snow against the window, making it rattle in the frame. My pulse is loud in my ears and I know he can feel it with his biting grip. He smiles again, knowingly and predatory. "Let me be a little clearer about your options here. I think I am being too polite for you to understand to situation."_

 _His crushing grip makes tears of pain wet my eyes, but I keep my mouth shut and don't give him the satisfaction of a response. I see the slight flare of irritation in his expression before he continues. "You and I both know there is one reason why I'm here, and I'm going to take it regardless of what you say. But it's up to you whether I can be mean or nice about it._ Mean _is what you make me do by fighting me._ Nice _is what I can be," his free hand slides the card into the small space between my chin and the table, "if you fucking_ give _me what I want without a struggle."_

 _He waits, digging his fingers deeper into my aching skin with every passing second._

 _The card is too close and the swastika at the top fills my vision. My stomach cramps angrily, begging for food. He hears it._

 _"This is the easiest decision you will ever make." He whispers, his lips dragging against my cheek. "No blood. No bruises. Ration stamps to buy whatever you want. Take advantage of my gift before I lose the last of my patience."_

 _In the excruciating silence that falls as his mouth moves to my neck I think of how my only safeguard, Greta, already told me she doesn't have enough to share. I think of the withered roots I dug up and were about to use to make a tea._

 _Across the kitchen the kettle lets out a shrill whistle._

* * *

I'm vomiting.

The porcelain of the toilet is cold when I hang onto it for dear life, emptying into it everything I've ever eaten. My stomach is in a ball in my throat, twisting and throbbing until acid coats my mouth and my lungs are screaming for air.

I'm no longer handcuffed to the cot. My hair is held back, Joe's hand clasping it against the base of my neck. I spit, coughing and gasping, but there is nothing left and dry heaves spasm through my torso.

"You're alright," he's murmuring behind me. "You're safe, Caroline."

I want to speak, but the noise that come out of my mouth isn't words. He curses under his breath and releases my hair. As the strands curtain around my face I feel him gently tugging me back and away from my death grip on the commode. Slowly detaching myself I sag, going limp and letting him guide me until I'm across his lap, my head on his bent knee and his sling presses against my damp cheek.

He wipes my face with the washcloth, smoothing away the fine hairs stuck to my forehead with sweat. His face, like everything, is a painful blur. "You're alright," he repeats.

Am I? The memories of what Henrich did crash together in my head, piling into on another until they fill the space and are begging to burst out. To fill in those blank spaces once and for all before Henrich could twist his version of the story tomorrow.

Air pushes from my lungs and vibrates in my throat, gravelly and hoarse. The memories press harder, knowing the relief of release is within reach. "What Henrich did –"

"You don't have to tell me anything, darlin'. I shouldn't have agreed to pressure you into talking about it. I'll tell your lawyer to go shove his head up his ass."

"You already know about it." He did, and my resentment towards this fact sharpens my voice until I feel him tense underneath me at the sound of it. "Let me tell you the truth. You should know the extent of it from me rather than him so you can judge for yourself if you want..." I falter, the next words sticking in my chest.

The washcloth lifts from my face and his cool fingers press into my chin, turning my head until the power of his brown eyes clears through the haze filling my vision. "Nothing is going to change, Caroline," he says. Quietly, but the intensity of his tone is clear. "What that motherfucker did…" the pressure on my chin increases for moment before he pulls his hand away. "…It changes nothing between you and me."

I already feel the tightness building behind my eyes. "Are you sure about that?"

He doesn't skip a beat. "Yes."

Focusing on the tile overhead rather than his drawn face and there, laying halfway across his lap on the cold bathroom floor with his knees digging into my back... I decide what I'm going to say.

Everything.

However much I wish he never found out and how earnestly I could beg for him to forget it, the fact remained that unless I told the truth there would always be questions. Unspoken, maybe, but always there just like the malignant, fatally silent questions that stalked me on the farm. Those lingering glances, those bitten tongues – the constant dance of careful words and withheld knowledge that made us into suspicious adversaries instead of… whatever it was we were right now, or at least the couple we wanted to be. I can't let that happen again, not when our understanding about how we feel about each other is as fragile as the thin string holding together my sanity. So once I start talking I don't shy away from the stark and atrocious events that led to where I am now. I _can't._

I tell him of Henrich's awkward courtship when we were young, his steep descent into the depths of Nazism and the increasing cruelty of his nature, his discovery of Anne, and the quickly consuming perversion of our relationship.

I tell him how the nightmarish chill of the Wolf's Lair bit right through the green dress.

I tell him why I never can drink gin again without getting ill.

I tell him how the green dress cut into my stomach as it was twisted tightly around my hips

I tell him how the quilt of Henrich's bed tasted as my face was shoved into it.

I tell him of the horrible pain cutting me in two, and how Henrich's weight on my back meant I couldn't breathe.

I tell him how I realized there was no one to help me, and that even though the people around me knew what was going on no one cared enough to try.

I tell him of the sleepless nights afterwards, staring into the dark and waiting for the sound of footsteps coming towards my door.

I tell him why the clothes I wore in the photographs always went down to my wrists and up my neck, regardless of the season.

I tell him how the farmhouse never turned into the escape I hoped it would be, and how often Henrich tormented me there.

I tell him of the choice I made last winter, between Henrich and starvation, and how weak and powerless it made me feel.

I tell him of the violence, the depravity, and the despair that greeted me, night after night.

I tell him of realizing it would never stop, no matter how hard I fought, until one of us was dead.

By the time my voice dies away, ragged and dry, there is nothing left. No stone unturned, no humiliation spared. I take in a breath and the air tastes thick with what I just revealed.

He knows. No guessing, no half-formed ideas based on what he saw that day he hid in the barn. He _knows._

I don't cry. I feel disconnected, as if the story wasn't my own. The facts are there, bare and pitiless, but it seems as though they belong to someone else. Another girl, one who bears all the pain and horror in my stead. The girl in the pictures. The girl who existed before Joe. She collects all the misery at her feet, presses it into a tight ball, and swallows it whole to keep it safely contained. Although she resides inside me, the weight of my trauma rests with her so I can still function. And I don't cry.

Joe isn't moving. The bathroom is silent as a grave.

As I spoke I felt the tension slowly screw tighter through him until he nearly vibrated underneath me. Now his chest expands with short, taut breaths and he doesn't speak. I can't move my gaze from the wall to see what emotion is on his face. The wall is safe. The girl can keep everything controlled if I don't see what he is thinking.

"Tell the lawyer," I say to him. I sound strangely calm, abnormally at odds with what I am talking about. "Might as well. Henrich will do his best to paint me as some harlot tomorrow so he should be prepared."

Joe's chest rises sharply, pressing his sling into my side, but he doesn't answer. Instead he legs abruptly move under me, jostling my back until I sit up. He stands, still silent, but doesn't move towards the door. As the damning lack of response grows more awkward I feel the girl crack slightly, and a thin web that hinted of panic makes me swallow, dropping my head until my hair hides him in the side of my vision. I draw my knees to my chest. I think I am going to start vomiting again.

He turns and walks out of the bathroom without a word. As his footsteps move away the hard floor grows colder and uncomfortable. _Nothing changed,_ I tell myself as the unexpectedly empty room instantly wraps around me in a lonely blanket. _He said nothing would change._

I believe that – I cling to it. He hadn't broken a single promise since that night he left me in the woods. His footsteps sound like he's pacing. He said he wasn't going anywhere. I have to believe he wouldn't abandon me now, in my most vulnerable moment. I hug my knees harder.

His voice suddenly echoes through the bathroom. "You should lay back down."

I jerk my head up, startled, and see the outline of his body back in the doorway. He's turned the lights off again. Behind him the cot has been moved back to its original position. "You need to get some rest before tomorrow."

His voice is flat and controlled. It reminds of his stony seriousness when we met and the crack opens a little wider. I climb slowly to my feet. Trying to talk around the lump quickly form in my throat I ask, "Are you going to be there, at court?"

"Of course."

Rather than being reassuring his lifeless tone just makes the lump grow faster. Afraid to say anything else that might turn into something ridiculous, I just go to brush past him and exit.

He purposely steps out of the way, so his body doesn't come into contact with mine.

I don't comment on it and continue into the hospital room, but the tears start to burn when I reach the cot. The girl is losing control faced with the uncertainty of what is going on. Curling up on the thin mattress I pull the army blanket up to my nose, burying my face in the warm darkness so he can't see my reaction to whatever he is going to do next, and wait.

I hear him slowly approach before the edge of the blanket is pulled back and the light from the hall falls across me. He is frowning down at me. "Caroline…" His chin works roughly. " _Nothin_ g has changed. It's just –" He pauses again, pursing his lips, before dropping the blanket at my shoulder and reaching to touch my face. He jerks back right before making contact, however, leaving his fingers hovering just over my skin. "I'm afraid that if I… I don't want to upset you. Henrich is a…" The hand bunches into a tight, angry fist that makes the tendons stand out on the back of his palm. He draws it away, hiding it at his side. "…I just need some air. A little bit to calm down. But I will be there tomorrow, no matter what. Get some rest."

He turns, heading for the door with stiff, mechanical footsteps. My gaze follows him, watching the tense set of his shoulders and the ticking of his jaw telegraph the rage underneath.

"Joe," I call out just before he reaches the doorway. He stops and looks back over to me, half illuminated by the light. I bite my lip, seeing his dark expression. "You should get some rest too, tonight… Please." I doubt the Americans will let him murder Henrich. That doesn't mean he won't try, even with one arm.

The muscles of his neck tic in restrained aggravation, but he gives me a short nod. "Don't worry. I'll see you tomorrow, darlin'."

He looks at me a second longer and for a flash his face softens around the edges. But before I can be sure he steps out into the hallway and disappears.

* * *

If my lawyer doesn't stop tapping his pen against the table I'm going to grab it and throw it across the room.

I adjust myself against the hard, uncomfortable chair again and look over my shoulder. My neck aches from doing this a thousand times in the last thirty minutes but I don't care. The spectators are getting settled in the courtroom. The clock above the door shows it is just a few minutes before we start.

Joe isn't here.

When the officer who seems to accompany him everywhere arrived, alone, I managed to ask about him by pointing at the empty chair Joe usually occupied, but the officer only shrugged in response.

I turn back forward. The lawyer is still preoccupied with reading a stack of papers in front of him, infernally tapping his pen in a steady drum. I know Joe told him; in our brief talk before I was brought up from the basement holding cells he expressed his sympathy and reassured me that he would show as much tact as possible during Henrich's testimony, whatever that means. But Henrich arrived late, sometime just before dawn, so no one had a chance to see him and get an idea of what he was going to say. It was a big gamble to allow him to testify, and I could read it in the stressed expression on the lawyer's face.

But that also meant Joe didn't have a chance to get in trouble during the night. So where was he?

The sound of the door being yanked open has my head whipping around again but it is just another MP. He comes over and starts exchanging whispers with the lawyer. Leaning on the table I put my head in my hands. He is _supposed_ to be here. How can I face Henrich again without him?

Another creak of the door comes from the back of the room and I jerk back up, turning to look.

A group of men stand in the threshold. Was it finally –

I feel the cold gaze emerge from them to land on me. Feel it far before I see it.

And when I do – when I meet the artic blue eyes glaring at me - they narrow, instantly drilling into me. _Oh God._ It isn't Joe.

 _No, no, no –_

He stands there, at the threshold. Even though he is across the room, with a dozen people between us, I'm physically knocked back. Hitting the back of the chair fiercely, every inch of me freezes. The blood stops moving in my veins. The air stills in my lungs.

 _Henrich._

He doesn't blink. Doesn't look away. I'm trapped, staring back at him. Fear – that _terror –_ draws the feeling out of my limbs. My head floats on my neck and I dig my nails into the arms of the chair, stopping myself from shuddering.

He steps forward, towards me, and the chains on his hands and feet rattle loudly. I jump, clambering up the chairback like a mouse caught in a corner despite the voice in my head admonishing me to not show him the fear that continues to grow larger at his presence. He should react like a shark tasting blood in the water, smirking and looking pleased like he always did when he got a reaction out of me. But his face doesn't change, and he continues to stare, hard and bitter.

His hair had been shorn, the thick blonde strands he used to fuss over now cut down to the scalp. The bones of his face are sharp against his sallow skin and his eyes lay heavily in in their sockets. For the first time in ten years he isn't wearing a uniform. Instead he's in baggy, gray cotton pants that hang off his leaned frame and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It's ripped at one shoulder, allowing room for a bulky cast extending down to his wrist and the tight cuff surrounding it.

I remember when teenage girls threw themselves at him. Now his handsomeness has worn down into a grotesqueness that is difficult to look at, even if the man behind it is deserving of every bit of it.

A Soviet soldier is at his right side, talking in English to the American soldiers on his left. Even though he can understand them he ignores the conversation and his eyes move down my figure, doing the same to me as I did for him. Before he can get past my collarbone I'm shoving myself back towards the table, pulling the chair in as far as it can go and hiding my body from his scrutiny underneath the surface. It's a flustered move that bumps the lawyers papers, finally making him break away from his conversation with the MP.

The Soviet and one of the Americans start leading Henrich forward. He cooperates, but he watches me his entire way up the aisle. I can't help but warily stare back, instinctively raising my hackles the closer he gets and waiting to defend myself against anything he has planned.

It isn't until he's past me that he finally unlocks his hold on me, turning away to follow the directions of the soldiers. He's put in a chair serving as the witness stand. More restraints imprison him against it, and as the men work securing him he immediately returns his focus towards me.

I want to shrivel up and die. The air between us, across the short distance from my table to his chair, grows forebodingly cold.

He never blinks. It's like watching a demon in human form. I look at the cuffs and chains. They don't seem to be enough to hold him.

As if hearing my thoughts, one of the Americans approaches his side and starts to free his hands.

I'm yanking on my lawyer's sleeve. "Should they be doing that?"

He waits for the interpreter to translate my question. "Yes, it's standard procedure. He can't do anything about the locks on the other belly chain or ankle cuffs. It's perfectly fine."

No, it isn't _perfectly fine._ He's shaking out his free hand and rubbing his wrist, but he focuses on me so penetratingly I feel a hole burning where his eyes land. I fight back the notion to crawl under the table. He can't do anything to me. He can't – he _can't._ They won't let him. The Soviet soldier is posted behind him. He can't get past that guy plus the Americans as well.

If only his _stare_ didn't promise he would, and how much he would make me pay if he got his hands on my again. I don't care what he sees in my face anymore. I'm just trying to stay upright, and not think about what his _hands_ would do –

A ghost of his old sneer twists his mouth. He's enjoying this, relaxed in the chair as if he didn't have a care in the world. This was a bad idea – I can't _do_ this –

"I'm here! I'm sorry I'm late."

I jump, hitting the table with my knees, and whip around. Joe stands behind me, on the other side of the rope, breathing heavily. _Oh thank God!_

"Joe…" I breathe, my nerves retreating back an inch for the first time since I stepped foot in this cursed room.

"I had to get a few things taken care of this morning and it took –" He stops, looking at me. "Are you alright?"

Distracted with gripping the back of the chair to stop myself from leaping out of it and running away, I don't answer. Henrich is watching us. I can feel it. Joe looks over my head and I can ascertain the instant he sees the blonde man. His eyes sharpen, and his entire face flattens into that unsettlingly blank expression that I've seen only when his anger is tinted with a murderous edge. I look back towards Henrich to judge his reaction, hoping that Joe's presence will temper at least some of the menace coming from him.

He still glowers at me, but he's lost that sneer and is trying to pretend that he doesn't see Joe. I watch as the discomfort finally get to him, though, and his glare glances up, away from me and to Joe, for barely a breath before he disengages completely, setting his jaw and moving to look at the floor. It's an overwhelmingly sheepish reaction, one I don't expect, and seems to be an acknowledgment of something that happened between the two of them. Most likely the very thing I wanted to know the least about.

I swallow, looking at Henrich's downturned head. "Is that cast because of you?" I ask Joe, who is still standing behind me in threatening silence.

"Yes." He responds in a slow, reserved tone betraying his ire and the interpreter leans closer, clearly eavesdropping. "I shot him in that shoulder, and when he wouldn't tell me where you were I ripped the fucking joint out the socket. The bone was broken, too, when I –"

"That's enough." I cut him off before he gets too deep in the details, already feeling breakfast reeling in my throat. "I don't want to know what… what you did." Already the pictures of Henrich screaming, of Joe gripping his bloody arm and twisting it until it shredded apart his shoulder –

I pull away from the injured man, circling back to Joe and surprised to find that his gaze is now leveled on me despite the ruthless thoughts I can see still flitting behind his eyes. The hand hanging in the sling is clenched tightly against his uniform. "Are you alright?" he asks again, but in a tone suggesting an entirely different question than before.

"I'm better now that –"

The lawyer stands, interrupting us to say something loud in our direction. Joe is momentarily taken aback, looking from me to blink the lawyer's way, but then becomes even more tense than I ever thought possible as he listens. He talks back to the lawyer, shaking his head harshly, and sounding furious.

The only words I recognize are Henrich's name and the litany of the obscenities he favors.

The lawyer points towards the back of the room, appearing deeply unhappy, and Joe spits something in response. Their argument immediately grows louder, drawing the attention of the other people and, more importantly, the MPs guarding the doors. I watch one of them begin to make his way up the aisle.

"What is going on? What is he saying?" I ask, but Joe doesn't hear me. I glance at the translator, but she seems fixated on the scene and doesn't offer any help.

Henrich looks amused.

Joe takes a step towards the lawyer, pushing against the rope. The officer with him stands, puts a hand on Joe's strained upper arm, and starts pulling him away while talking in his ear. Joe tries to shrug him off, continuing to go back and forth with the lawyer at a level that is perilously close to yelling. I look around for a second time. Everyone is watching the scene unfold.

"Joe!" I try again. The soldier makes it to us and joins the fray, talking to him sternly. Joe shakes his head at him too, saying something that I can tell is ugly.

Everyone bristles. Another soldier starts down the aisle and the translator goes to move out of the way.

I stand as well as the crowd around me swells, knocking my chair. The first MP sees me get up and barks something sharp. A second later I'm shoved back into the seat, a heavy hand on my shoulder pinning me in place. A flash of pain as the chair back digs into my injuries twists my face before I can help it and I can tell Joe sees it when he suddenly stops shouting.

For a few sudden seconds, everyone is silent.

Then with a deep growl Joe lunges across the rope towards the MP holding on to me. The officer with him grabs onto the rear of his jacket just before he reaches us, yanking him back before his outstretched hand could grab onto the MP's arm and rip him away from my shoulder. They tumble backwards, the other MP going with them and trying to restrain Joe but failing to get a grip on his flailing free arm. Then a look comes across his face and I know what he's going to do.

"Don't!" I shout. "Joe, he's going to –"

I'm too late. The MP latches onto Joe's slinged elbow, pulling at it roughly. Joe's reaction is instant – his legs locking straight, his torso arching, and the blood leaving his face, he rolls stiffly off the officer and onto his back. He opens his mouth as if to cry out, but nothing emerges. He freezes on the floor, tears saturating his eyes and a sudden sweat slicking his skin.

"Joe!" The horror hits me hard, watching him fight the wave of what must be agony. Glaring at the MP still pulling his arm away at the shoulder, I go to stand again. "Stop! You're _hurting_ him!" I slammed back once more as I try to charge towards them. "Let _go!"_

The dark-haired officer finally regains his senses and leans over to shove the MP away, bellowing something that sounds like an order to go walk off a cliff. Joe gasps as his arm is released, automatically clutching it against his stomach and rolling protectively on his side. His eyes slam shut and his nostrils flare with forced breaths as his jaw clenches so hard the muscle creates a hollow on his cheek. His face is as white as paper.

There is another shocked silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of the three men on the floor.

I wait, not moving, until I see his eyes slowly crack back open. They aren't quite focused, but I still send up a silent prayer of thanks. The MP's hand on my shoulder tightens as I lean forward, over the rope separating us. "Can you hear me?" A slight bit of pink comes back to his cheeks and he gives a slow nod. "Do you need a doctor? Did he rip your stitches?"

The mention of a doctor seems to rouse him further from his stupor. His brows draw together and his throat bobs. "…No."

The officer says something in English and he mumbles out another answer I don't understand, still not rising from the floor. More people have been drawn to the room by the noise, including several more MPs that fill the aisle. I turn to the translator. "Can you ask them if I can go over to him? Just those few feet?"

She seems disconcerted by my request, her eyes wide, but stammers out the English words. There is some low murmuring amongst the MPs, but after a minute the hand releases its hard grip on me. I don't waste any time, darting from the chair and under the rope to drop to my knees at his side.

His eyes are scrunched closed again. I lightly touch his face. "Joe?"

"I'm fine," he answers quickly in a tight whisper. "Just… just need to…"

The officer – close enough now that I can read the name _Nixon_ on his uniform tag – pushes between us, holding a small glass bottle. He taps out two pills which he proceeds to drop into Joe's mouth for Joe to chew quickly. Satisfied, Nixon glances at me and, grumbling something, stands to go over where the MPs have gathered.

Swallowing, Joe takes a deep breath. "Are… you alright?" he asks me for the third time.

Foolish idiot – he's the curled up on the _floor._ "Shouldn't I be the one asking that?"

A slight smile glances off the edges of his colorless mouth, the anger that put him in this position locked away as quickly as it sprung free. "What'd you…mean? Right as rain… over here."

I try to smirk back, if only to loosen the knot in my throat. "Sure you are. Should I fetch my sewing box?"

"You just want me to take my… shirt off. We're in public, darlin'." He tries to chuckle, but its cut off by a sharp inhale of pain. The sound of it stabs me in the chest and I push his jacket lapel aside to look at the lump of bandages underneath. His shirt is clean.

"It doesn't look like you're bleeding." His hat had fallen off during the fall and his hair falls over his forehead. I smooth it back with my hand, watching the deep wrinkle digging between his brows. "Just breathe."

"That's… my line." His deadpans and closes his eyes again, but I feel him relax as the pills do their magic and I run my fingers through his unruly strands. Behind us Nixon is berating someone, probably the MP who nearly ripped open Joe's bullet wound. He hears it as well. "I'm… going to fucking kill that guy," he rumbles to me, his voice finally regaining its strength.

"How about you focus on just sitting up for now? One thing at a time."

"And then I'm goddamn going to finish dismantling Henrich."

 _Henrich_. I look over my shoulder. He is peering in our direction, but thankfully we are mostly hidden behind the table and people gathered around. "From the looks of him the Russians have started doing that for you."

"They aren't doing it fast enough."

I shake my head at him. "You've got to stop being so reckless. What was all the arguing about anyway?"

His jaw tightens again. "Your fucking lawyer is trying to kick me out of the courtroom."

My hand stills in his hair. "Kick you out? Why?"

"He thinks listening to Henrich is going to fucking effect my testimony or something equally stupid." He opens his eyes again, his pupils large and angry. "Like I'm going to leave you in here to face that son of a bitch alone." His hand reaches up, loosely grasping my wrist by his ear and slightly pulling it away. "I'm alright. You shouldn't – You've got enough to worry about without dealing with this bullshit. I'm not going anywhere."

Nixon is done with the MPs and spins around, shooting Joe a very irritated glare. He says something in the same tone he used chastising the MPs and Joe sighs but responds in German to me. "I don't give a shit what any of these guys do."

I look at both of them. I feel his fingertips trembling against my skin where he still holds my arm. I know he's still in more pain than he's letting on, and I know what is going to happen if they try to forcibly remove him again. Already he's stirring, moving to get back on his feet and start a second round like this was some sort of boxing match.

He goes to rise but I gently press him back. He stops, frowning at me in confusion.

"I'll be alright," I tell him. "You should go get your shoulder looked at."

His eyes widen with astonishment and he brushes my hands away, sitting up with a slight wince. "What the hell are you talking about? I'm not leaving."

I look at the men gathered around us. "I don't think we have much of a choice."

"Like hell we don't. I said I don't care what the fuck they think or do." His voice swells with renewed agitation and Nixon pinches the bridge of his nose.

"It'll be okay – "

"Not with that asshole in here," he points in Henrich's direction, "with you and –" He focuses somewhere behind me. "Do you fucking mind? This is a _private_ conversation."

I hear the interpreter take a quick step away.

"Joe, you've got to listen to me." His eyes snap back to mine, a flush creeping up his neck. "Look how many guards are in here. Henrich is chained up. He can't do anything to me."

He sets his chin. "That's _not_ what I'm worried about. You look sick, Caroline, just from being in the same place with him. Last night –"

"It's better… _I'm_ better. Trust me. I've handled dealing with him for almost a decade – I can take one more day."

He gives me a look that tells me that I'm not coming across as convincing as I want to be. "And I _know_ what that was like for you. Why would I let them make you go through this by yourself?"

"It's better than seeing you like this!" I throw my hands up in aggravation at his godforsaken _stubbornness_. "They are going to drag you out of here either way. I'd rather not see you hurt more than you already are!"

"That shit doesn't matter – I don't care what they do to me." He draws his legs under him, glaring at the MPs as he does so and clearly stewing for another fight.

I clap my hands on his neck, framing his face with my palms and stilling his attempt to stand. Our noses almost touch and his eyes lock with mine. "It matters to me. Please, Joe."

His neck twitches under my touch as a churning mixture of pain, anger, and frustration swirls behind his eyes, and for a moment I think he's going to push me away and go for a running tackle of the MPs. But then his shoulders suddenly dip and he sighs deeply. "Goddammit."

"I promise I'll be fine." I pull back, conscious of the dozens of pairs of eyes on us, and at the loss of my hold his chin drops to his chest.

He stares at the floor between his crouched knees for a long moment before I hear the low question: "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Yes." I shift my weight back until I'm sitting on my feet, still focusing on him. "I'm sure. I'll visit you afterwards so you can see for yourself that I'm alright."

"I'll hold you to that." He finally stands and everyone around us tenses with apprehension. A ticked off look crosses his face before he announces something in English and dismisses them all with a wave of his hand. He's still pale, but his voice is loud and steady and everyone around us reluctantly starts to disperse, only hastened by a loud word from Nixon.

I slowly stand too, casting another glance at Henrich. A bored expression plays across his face, but his eyes are sharp on me. I turn back away, suppressing a shiver.

"Don't let him get to you," Joe offers, squeezing my shoulder in reassurance and sending a threatening scowl to Henrich over my head. "He's just a bully. Remember that, Caroline."

"I know." My voice cracks and I flinch, resisting the urge to look at my tormentor again.

A worried expression crosses his face and he steps closer, until I have to stop myself from leaning against his chest for comfort. "He has no power here," he says softly, dipping his head until our eyes meet. "Whatever he threatened you with over the years no longer exists. You can do or say anything you want, Caroline, and there isn't a damn thing he can do in response. Don't be afraid. That's the only control he has left over you. Don't show him fear and you've won."

Swallowing, I nod as Nixon comes over to tap Joe on the back and motion towards the door. Raising his head to press his lips to my forehead one last time, he nods to the officer and lifts his hand from my shoulder. "I'll be outside," he tells me as Nixon starts leading him away. " _Right_ outside, okay? I'm not going any farther than that. I love you."

"I love you too," I say, but my voice fails and I don't think he hears me over the noise in the room as Nixon tugs him out the door.

A heavy weight rests on my back, coming from the gaze pinned there. The door closes with a loud slam.

Just like that, it's back to being just me and Henrich.

* * *

"How would you describe your relationship with Ms. Alsbach when you were children?"

"Close. She was always odd in her nature and, as a result, friendless. In third grade we were assigned seats next to one another and when I didn't make fun of her like the others she attached herself to me."

That was a load of, as Joe would say, _bullshit._ I bite back the urge to shout that at him and cross my arms uncomfortably as Henrich starts playing his games right out of the gate. He is answering my lawyer's questions in English. It's intentional, a power play that keeps me in the dark for a nerve-wracking few seconds until the interpreter can whisper her translation and gives him time to smirk cruelly at me while I wait.

"Attached herself, how?"

He crosses an ankle over his knee. "Followed me home from school, hung around me in the schoolyard… generally trailed behind me like a lovesick puppy."

The pleased glint in his eyes is bright. I chew on my tongue.

"You thought she was in love with you?"

A chuckle shakes his chest. "Clearly."

"Did she ever say so?" My lawyer leans on the podium that holds his list of questions, mirroring Henrich's casual posture.

Henrich doesn't stop watching me. "What child says that? We were only seven or eight."

"So she didn't? Even as you grew older?"

"She didn't have to."

My lawyer stands straight. "Your file says you joined the Hitler Youth in 1937. Is this correct?"

"Yes."

"What led you to do that?"

A dimple creases one of his cheeks and he turns his attention to my lawyer for the first time. "Seemed like a good idea." Making a flippant gesture, he uncrosses and recrosses his legs.

"How so?"

He smiles then, his face morphing for a moment from the POW he was into the predator I knew so well my heart drops to my knees. "It's what people… did. If you were a good German you served your Fuhrer."

"But Miss Alsbach didn't, correct?"

The cold blue eyes find mine again. "No, she never joined the Hitler Youth. She told me her parents wouldn't allow it. Which makes sense, given that they were hiding Jews."

"When did you first meet Dr. Albrecht Mueller?"

"I was at a Hitler Youth summer camp just after I joined in '37. He was there observing us and attempting to find participants in his program."

"And he chose you?"

"Obviously."

Even with the starved bones of his face protruding through his skin and his entire arm in a cast his arrogance is still completely intact. It's disgusting and I let my thoughts show on my face. That blueness only grows frostier as he stares.

"What did Dr. Mueller's training entail for you?"

He licks his bottom lip in aggravation, looking at the lawyer once more. "Physical conditioning, learning about our propaganda program, training in how to best serve our Fuhrer."

"So, mainly classroom instruction and exercise?"

"Yes."

"When did you decide that Miss Alsbach should be considered for the program?"

Henrich shoots me a satisfied look. "During that same summer. She fit the psychological profile Dr. Mueller developed. Female with few social connections, quiet, studious, awkward. We needed someone who was vulnerable."

"Vulnerable in what sense?"

"Predisposed to suggestion. Caroline was always desperate for my approval and hung on my every word. She was lonely and mentally fragile. Someone like that is perfect for the molding we wanted to do."

I bite my tongue harder.

"Surely she wasn't the only girl in Berlin who was like that? Did you look at any others?"

"Dr. Mueller told me he did, before I came onboard. Those experiments failed. Once I was involved we knew my connection to Caroline would make her entry into the program easier than it was for the previous participants."

"So you chose her to be some sort of lab rat for the two of you?" My lawyer's voice sharpens.

Henrich picks at the sole of the boot resting on his knee. "Not until I found those Jews in her parents' basement. Before that she was just someone of interest, so to speak. There was no benefit for Dr. Mueller with her in the program until he knew she was from a family of Jew smugglers."

There is a harsh lilt to his pronunciation of _Jews._ Anti-Semitism still taints his speech even after all this, ingrained and practiced over the last decade and a half. My lawyer lifts an eyebrow. "Tell us, Mr. Lehmann, what are your feelings towards Jews now that the war is over?"

Henrich scoffs. "How do you expect a former Nazi to answer that question?"

"So you still hate them?"

Henrich knows he has nothing to lose. The Russian standing just feet behind him is evidence enough of that. I think my lawyer is banking on it. "An arbitrary date in May the Allies decided to call V-E Day doesn't change anything on my end."

"So it must have felt like a particular betrayal to learn the Miss Alsbach's family was sheltering Jews."

"Betrayal? Of what? Our Fuhrer? It was, and her family was accordingly punished."

"You don't consider it a betrayal of your affection?"

His eyes flick back to me. "Affection? No, my feelings towards her weren't _affection._ She was an intriguing subject, nothing more."

My lawyer tilts his head. "Nothing more? Why, you seemed awfully attached to her for being so disassociated." Henrich shifts in his chair but doesn't say anything else. My lawyer presses harder. "Didn't you become engaged to her?"

"That was in accordance to Dr. Mueller's program." His response, in contrast to the others, is slightly clipped. Something about this line of questioning is making him uncomfortable.

"You spent nearly every day together. You played out a grand romance for the press. Dr. Mueller wrote that you intended to marry her the moment she graduated and joined the Party. It's awfully hard to believe it was all… _business_ for you."

"Our roles involved a significant amount of acting, Lieutenant Smith," Henrich responds shortly. "Caroline can testify to that. The propaganda photos we made were such, and nothing more. So was the engagement."

My nostrils flare with a sharp breath. That _lying –_

Smith nods contemplatively, physically retreating a step. "Once she was in the program, her training was significantly different than yours. Initially she was denied food until she renounced her parents. To the best of your recollection, is that correct?"

"That was the course of the program, yes."

"And then she had to watch her father be executed before her very eyes."

Henrich seems relieved that the nature of the questions has changed and shrugs. "Dr. Mueller had to impart the consequences for disobedience."

"So she knew from the time she was twelve that if she rebelled in any way she would end up like him, dead?"

"That was the goal."

"And while she was being starved and watching her loved ones be murdered, she was relentlessly plied with Anti-Sematic literature, correct?"

"I believe so."

"That is an incredible burden for a twelve year old to bear, Mr. Lehmann."

Another shrug. "It worked." He's relaxing again, leaning back into his chair. His gaze however, now sharply rests on my lawyer more than me.

"And then, when she was fourteen, she was ordered to shoot her mother. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"How would you describe Ms. Alsbach during this time? After the retraining had been completed?"

"As a Nazi," he gives another slight laugh. It sounds hollow in the deathly quiet room.

"Perfectly obedient? As good of a Nazi as yourself and Dr. Mueller?"

The laughter dies away. "Sure," he answers slowly, watching the lawyer circle in front of the podium.

"Certainly obedient enough to follow through with the order regarding her mother, right?"

"I guess."

"And afterward, she followed the orders from you and Dr. Mueller? To the letter?"

"For the most part. Like I said, she was never a particularly exceptional girl. It could be exhausting, constantly giving her direction." He makes a long face, as if he were the long suffering one. The pressure building in my head intensifies, seeing it.

"So she wasn't one to take initiative in your activities?"

"I'm not sure if she was capable. You don't seem to understand – she's a _simpleton._ " From the chair he looks down his nose at me as the interpreter tells me what he's saying. I glower, and he enjoys it.

"Simpleton… but isn't that why she was chosen? To be easy to control?"

"Sure, but that didn't mean it wasn't aggravating to deal with."

My lawyer steps closer to him. "How did you _deal_ with it? How did you ensure she toed the line properly?"

Henrich puts his chin in his hand, still irritatingly casual, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. "Dr. Mueller firmly believes that actions have consequences. If she did something he didn't like, he made sure she knew never to do it again."

"You are dancing around the subject, Mr. Lehmann," my lawyer remarks, coming closer. "What I want to know is what these consequences were. Care to elaborate?"

"It's right there in his files," Henrich is quick to reply. "Read it for yourself."

Smith falls silent for a moment, then turns and walks to our table. "Very well, Mr. Lehmann." Reaching his stack of folders, he takes the one on top and flips it open. "Here is an entry from March 1942 that we have translated: ' _This morning CA refused to prepare a speech for the GAT primary school event. This is consistent with the behavioral difficulties she has displayed over the last ten months. Given that my previous attempts to personally modify her disposition through revoked privileges and lectures have not been effective, I instructed HL to do what he deems necessary to force her to comply with my directive. My hope is that the renewed application of corporal punishment will work as it did during her initial training phase. I am aware, however, that he has taken his own measures regarding her compliance to their engagement and as a result she may be inoculated against the persuasion of violence if it is used without other complimentary methods."_

Dark memories surface in the chaotic space in my brain and my insides clench together. I remember that night. My wrists suddenly burn, as if they are remembering the fresh friction of the ropes Henrich used as well. Blinking, I focus on the men again, trying to suppress the building bubble of recklessness that makes me want to clear the distance between us and rip Henrich's throat out. My pulse beats in the bruises of my face.

"We have assumed that 'CA' refers to Caroline Alsbach and 'HL' refers to Henrich Lehmann. 'GAT' is the _Grunschule Am Teutoburger_ school you and Ms. Alsbach visited on March 25th 1942, shortly after this entry. Can you verify that this is correct?" my lawyer asks.

Henrich drops his hand from his chin. "You'll have to ask Mueller."

"Unfortunately we can't do that, but logically it has to be. Who else under Mueller's care would have these initials and be engaged?"

He doesn't respond, glaring at my lawyer.

"Can you give us any details on what you did in this situation?"

Henrich works his jaw. "I don't recall."

Smith nods. "Well, fortunately Mueller continued his notes the next day. ' _Pleased to report that HL's actions were successful. CA completed the speech this morning and submitted it for proofing.'"_ He flips to the next page. "' _Unfortunately this method is not without its drawbacks. Despite my rules he has heavily bruised her face and I do not anticipate it will heal in time for the event. Will need to find a cosmetician to cover the marks. Also, will need to pay the hotel staff to discretely remove the bloody bedding from her room. Given the budgetary constraints of late, this may not be sustainable unless HL shows more consideration to my restrictions. Will speak to him."_

My lawyer goes quiet, slowly closing the folder and looking at Henrich. Henrich coolly responds in turn, but I see his fingers twitch in his lap. "You beat her, didn't you?" Smith finally asks.

"Like I said," Henrich draws out, "I don't recall."

Smith tosses the folder back onto the table. "What about the other times? I've got stacks of paper that all say that you were Dr. Mueller's tool to forcefully keep Ms. Alsbach in line, whatever that took. Why don't you tell us what you do remember doing to her."

Henrich holds back for a minute, watching the lawyer who calmly waits in front of him. Then that dimple suddenly creases again and he rolls his uninjured shoulder, appearing to purposefully relax. "Nothing out of the ordinary. She could get mouthy, like women do. I recollect giving her a good slap every now and then, like any man does to their wife."

"But she wasn't your wife, was she? In fact, you never set a wedding date –"

"We did," Henrich suddenly interrupts, his voice growing icy. "… _Things_ happened just before it, though, that led to its cancellation."

My lawyer takes a step closer, looking at him ponderously. "You seem awfully defensive whenever we discuss your personal relationship with the defendant, Mr. Lehmann. I can tell you that, from here, it doesn't look at all like a 'business' relationship you testified it was."

Henrich glowers. "She means nothing to me."

"'Nothing' doesn't imply the violence Dr. Mueller writes about when you forced her to keep the engagement. Nor does it imply the hatred you so clearly display towards her now, or bloody bedsheets, or a decade of manipulation merely because she was friendly with you as a child –"

"I did as Dr. Mueller ordered," Henrich barks back. "Dealing with her was part of _the job."_

The projector flips on in the back and a beam of light cuts over our heads to splash a picture on the wall. It's me, in the hospital after Joe rescued me. My eyes are swollen shut and I'm unconscious, flat on my back with a large rubber oxygen mask strapped to my face. My left arm is held out for the photographer by an unidentified hand grasping my wrist. _MEINE_ cuts across my pale skin in slashes that are thick and black in the colorless image.

"'Mine,'" my lawyer says shortly, pausing for a beat afterwards as his eyes rest steadily on Henrich. "You cut that word into her like it was a luggage tag on a piece of your property. All business, though, right? That is what you are going to testify?"

Henrich lingers on the image before turning back to us. "I didn't do that."

"No? Who did then?"

He glances at me before shrugging. "How should I know?"

Smith taps his fingers against his chin. "Why, then, did you tell Corporal Joseph Liebgott that you did it? That's what he is going to testify to."

Henrich's face instantly grows harder and his eyes shutter closed for a brief moment. "You mean, when he was in the middle of _torturing_ me? I'm sure I said a lot of things, but I can tell you that I was enough pain that I would have admitted anything he wanted just to make it stop."

"But Cpl. Liebgott didn't know about this until you told him. How could he have gotten you to admit something he didn't know?"

"He ran into her during the battle for the village. He probably saw it." Henrich jerks his chin towards me. "Or she told him."

"Really?" My lawyer's eyebrows raise towards his hairline. "In the few seconds they had together, in the middle of a _battle?_ That's a strange circumstance to have a heart to heart."

"He's a maniac," he answers, his voice dropping to a low hiss. "I wouldn't put anything past him. Look what he did to my arm!"

I see a slight gleam in Smith's eyes as he takes another step closer to the wary blonde man. "What did he do to your arm?"

"He fu – He dislocated both my shoulders and broke it by throwing me through a window!" He gestures towards his cast and gives an indignant huff.

"He dislocated your shoulders when you weren't telling him where Dr. Mueller was hiding Ms. Alsbach, correct?"

Henrich grits his teeth. "Yes."

"But what made him throw you out the window?"

"I don't know! Maybe he's a lunatic!"

Smith leans forward. "Oh, I think you and I know it was something else. Something quite different."

"I don't know what you are talking about," he growls in response, but I see the corner of his eye tic with aggravation.

Suddenly my lawyer turns away, coming back to the table. When I look at him he makes an expression that appears apologetic towards me, and I steel myself in my chair.

"When the accused took her Party oath at fourteen she was well-behaved and a textbook Nazi, as you have testified," he states, going through the file folders again. "When she was sixteen, your engagement to her was announced. Now, according to both you and Dr. Mueller's notes, she still needed consistent reinforcement of the ideals you wanted her to display throughout this time. Is that a fair assessment?"

Henrich's answer this time is much more careful. "Yes… I suppose."

"But that shouldn't have been too surprising, correct? After all, you were attempting to completely change the way she thought. There were bound to be a few hiccups."

"I don't know. That was Dr. Mueller's concern."

Smith finds the file he was looking for and faces Henrich once more. "But it was _your_ concern, once you were engaged to her. Dr. Mueller says so right in this file. As he was pulled away more often for meetings at the _Reichstag,_ trying to save his program, you were left in charge of her."

"I was left alone in her company more often, yes."

My lawyer shakes his head. "No, that is not what Dr. Mueller indicates. He wrote right here, on June 11th, 1942: ' _Gobbels is requiring more frequent data and justifications for the continuation of my experiment and I am increasingly unable to spend adequate time with CA to work on her deficiencies. I have instructed HL to take responsibility for her development as her future husband. This is also justified by the need to solidify their relationship before he tours with the SS – I do not want any further dissention from her regarding their marriage without his reinforcement.'_ Would you like to revise your testimony, Mr. Lehmann?"

It's like Henrich has forgotten I am in the room. He now focuses hotly on my lawyer, his chin lowered and his eyes dark. "If that's what it says then I guess that's what happened," he bites out.

Smith smiles. "Good. Now my question is: why did Ms. Alsbach's behavior only worsen with time? Naturally, one would assume she would become more compliant the longer she spent in your company."

"I've said that she isn't particularly bright – or did Dr. Mueller call her a genius in those files too?" He gives an ugly, challenging smile. "So I don't know her reasoning. Maybe she's a glutton for punishment."

"Dr. Mueller doesn't remark on her intelligence. He only indicates that he started having serious concerns about her dedication somewhere around her sixteenth birthday. Can you shed any light on what happened?"

Some of Henrich's nasty humor returns and his lips twitch. "What sixteen year old doesn't become rebellious?"

"Do you count helping Jews escape as 'teenage rebellion'? That seems a bit of an understatement."

"It would be the most symbolic way of getting back at Dr. Mueller, if that was what she wanted."

"Only Dr. Mueller? Something happened to her during that time frame, didn't it? An event that likely turned her completely against you both and planted the seed for her to help those Jews. One that, when told about it, caused Cpl. Liebgott to throw you through a window. What sort of action could be so potent to cause all that, Mr. Lehmann?"

I watch Henrich closely. His eyes follow my lawyer, his brows heavy over his eyes and his lips pulled into a stark frown. He hand clenches his knee tightly. His gaze darts to me one more time and I don't like what I see there. "You mean, when we became _lovers?"_

I feel the blood drain from my face. _Lovers?!_

"That's how you characterize what happened?" My lawyer asks.

"How would you?" he counters back. "She was always interested in me. We spent a lot of time together. It was lonely to be traveling all the time. I know we should have waited until we were married, but we couldn't."

"Are you saying that your intimacy with her was consensual?"

It feels like everyone in the courtroom shifts awkwardly at once. In the edge of my vision I can see more than one person peering at me curiously. _Lovers?_ The sounds of the courtroom fade out of my hearing and my heart pounds inside of my head. _Keep breathing. Just breathe._ Joe's voice.

It isn't until the interpreter is in the midst of Smith's next question that I snap to. "So you are telling me that with Mueller's notes about your beatings, the need to force her into your engagement, the bloody bed sheets, her entire plan to help the Jews, and you _carving_ into her arm that she still willingly engaged in sexual activities with you? That doesn't make sense."

"It's her cognitive dissonance, not mine."

"Yet it led to Cpl. Liebgott breaking your arm."

"He's a jealous madman."

" _And_ her attempting to fight off your advances when you visited her farm while Cpl. Liebgott was there. He is going to testify that he witnessed you trying to force her."

"She wanted to get on his good side. I was as surprised as he was, I imagine, when she went nuts. First time she ever fought me like that. I thought it was a new game."

The breath freezes in my chest. Henrich gives me another toothy smile and everything starts to spin.

"But you said she is a neither intelligent or someone who could take the initiative on anything. Yet she formulated an intricate conspiracy against you at the exact same moment you were violent with her _and_ you thought no one was looking?"

Henrich hesitates for a moment, caught in his earlier lie, but straightens once more. "Who knows what ideas that American planted in her head? He certainly drove her to go through with that suicidal mission to get across the line through live fire. He seemed to have been very influential over her decisions."

"So he did in just a few days what you couldn't do in ten years – change her behavior?"

The chains around Henrich's wrists rattle as he shifts. His lips open to answer, but then he closes them and remains silent. Empty, cold eyes meet mine again. He's upset my lawyer got the best of him. The tension between us becomes thicker as I stare back, not blinking.

"We also had our medical staff examine her when she was admitted with her injuries, both to identify those injuries and find any distinctive markings that could be used as identifiers in her POW file." Smith snatches another folder. "We found quite a few. Some of them we assume are Dr. Mueller's work - ' _lateral and medial fibrosis on left and right shin, subcutaneous fibrosis left and right patella, indicative of puncture wounds.'_ This means scaring on her shins and kneecaps, which is consistent with Dr. Mueller's notes of what he did to her during her training. But perhaps you could help us explain some of the others. To spare us the confusion I'm going to call them out in layman's terms and you tell me if you know how she got them. Understand?"

He leans on the armrest of his chair for a second time. "Sure."

"There is a scar going from her right temple down her cheekbone."

The way the simmering rage in his face lessens I know he remembers. He almost smirks but stops himself. "She messed up a very important meeting with our Fuhrer and Herr Goebbels. Dr. Mueller did it with a vase – he was very upset with her disobedience."

"Her jaw was dislocated and broken on the left side."

"She was interrogated regarding the aid she gave the American. My associate – who I believe is now dead – gave her that courtesy." The glee in voice comes to the surface and the interpreter clears her voice in discomfort before she tells me what he says. He can't hide what a savage he is, no matter how hard he tries to come across as detached.

"Her nose was broken, possibly compounded from an earlier injury."

"Probably from the same thing. I don't know"

"Four ribs were fractured."

He shrugs. "Not sure when that happened."

"Her upper back has twelve small lacerations, recently healed."

"Schueller reported that she fell on some glass debris after a bombing. She never told me about it, however."

"What appear to be cigarette burns on her stomach, arms, and back."

I jerk slightly and automatically look down at the tiny, faded pale circle near one of my elbows.

 _Hanging from the ceiling, blood pooling around my feet. Tell us where they are going or I will have Henrich burn you until there is nothing left!_

Henrich idly taps his foot. "Not sure. Maybe she was clumsy."

"To burn her own _back_ even though, according to Cpl. Liebgott, she doesn't smoke?"

"I think she used to."

"Yet she has never been photographed smoking, even when you are, and does not use the cigarette rations we give her in detention?"

"I guess she _quit,_ then."

Smith exhales loudly in frustration. "A three inch scar going down the inside of her left thigh."

 _His hand knotting my hair, pinning me against the table. Hold still or I'll cut off more than your clothes._ I'm turning away from Henrich for the first time since my lawyer started, fisting my hands in my lap and trying to keep the air moving through my nose. _Just breathe._

"No idea." My head snaps back around and I find him already watching me, so very _fucking_ conceited in every inch of his face. My fists tighten until my knuckles ache.

My lawyer shoots me another contrite look before he speaks again. "A crescent shaped scar on her right breast, consistent with a bite mark.

The spinning grows worse.

"Don't know."

"And another on the inside of her right thigh."

"Still don't know."

"And a _third_ on her left shoulder."

Henrich sneers. "Maybe you should be asking Liebgott these questions. He's the last one she did the deed with, at least that I know of. He might _know_ where they came from better than me."

My lawyer drops the file back on the table. "The bite marks were old and scarred over. And, according to Cpl. Liebgott, they haven't been intimate."

" _What?"_ Henrich's gaze collides with mine with the force of a crashing train, pressing me back in my seat. Swallowing, I compel my face to relax. The air grows colder as he doesn't look away and I can see the rapid thoughts flying through his head, going over what I told him and what I didn't. I slowly shake my head at him, confirming that my lawyer was telling the truth.

He clenches his teeth together, an angry flush creeping up his neck. I try to revel in it, to enjoy the sensation of driving him mad instead of the nervous fear and simmering resentment still making my feet bounce under the table. To Henrich, the only thing worse that losing me to a man I had slept with was losing me to a man I hadn't.

"So are you still going to tell us it was consensual? That it was all _business?_ "

Henrich sighs and shakes his head, looking towards his lap. His mind visibly works, twisting the facts like he always does. But there was no way he could talk his way out of this one – there were no more lies that could possibly make any sense. I knew it and he knew it; he was defeated.

Then a slow smile stretches across his face that makes my blood run cold and he looks up at me. "Okay, very well," he tells Smith. "I was trying to demur to remain a gentleman, but if you insist: I did make those bite marks on her."

He deliberately pauses. The admission does nothing to still the quickening spinning and my blood pressure slowly keeps rising.

His fingertips still on his knee. "She wanted it, and wanted it rough."

I shove myself out of my chair. "You _son of a bitch –"_

He leans forward, towards me, and finally speaks in German. "See? She's a feisty one. How could I say no?"

A gasp steals my breath away, and I lean over the table towards him. "How _dare_ you! You know exactly what you did, how you _brutalized_ me for years."

Henrich laughs and taps the armrest of his chair with his palm. "That's not how I remember it."

Vaguely I hear the translator struggle to convey our conversation to the rest of the stunned courtroom. "Of _course_ not. You're _insane_. I never loved you – I barely even _liked_ you when we were children. Your drivel about me being some pathetic loner is ironic considering _you_ were the outcast, what with your stupid ramblings about your Nazi nonsense. No one liked you. No one likes you to this day. Your all alone, Henrich. Just you and the Soviets, who I hope put you out of your misery as quickly as possible!"

One of the officer is charge is saying something, but the interpreter is unable to convey it as Henrich lunges forward, the chains holding him to the chair rattling loudly. "Be careful, Caroline," he warns darkly.

"Or what?" I shout back. "What the hell are you going to do, Henrich? Tattle on me to Dr. Mueller like you always did, you _pathetic_ schoolboy?"

"Dr. Mueller doesn't care any longer about what happens to some useless Jew _whore,_ " he spits in return, lifting his chin in a challenge. When the translator says that in English I hear some quiet gasps in the crowd behind me. Even the officer in charge falls silent.

My lawyer is grabbing onto my arm, trying to yank me back into my seat. I dig my heels in, punching my fist against the table. "You don't know, do you? You don't have any clue."

He falters for a second, but straightens. "What?" he snaps.

"Dr. Mueller is dead."

Henrich stops pulling against the chains and it feels like the entire room is holding its breath. He blinks.

"I killed him. I shot him right between the eyes, back at the camp." Now it's my turn to smile.

"You're lying," he growls at me, the disbelief that his cherished mentor could be gone flashing across his face.

"Ask them about it. The Americans all saw his body when they rescued me," I respond, pointing at the crowd staring at us. "And given the chance I would do exactly the same thing to you. You deserve it after everything you've done and all the people you've killed –"

Henrich heaves heavily, staring at me with stabbing eyes. "You-you fucking _bitch –"_

"I should have taken you out into those woods that night, instead of Karl, so the Jews you victimized could hold you down like they did to him and I could _crush_ your skull until there was nothing left, you perverted, rapist piece of –"

Henrich comes for me, attempting to lunge out of the chair. The chains rip tight, tilting the whole thing, and the Russian comes out of his shocked daze to grab onto it. I instinctively stumble a few steps back, until I hit my lawyer. Taking a deep breath, I brace myself to not move any farther. _He can't do a thing to me._

"I knew I should have carved you into pieces when I had the chance!" he screams as he's tugged backward. "You were a _worthless_ Nazi and Mueller should have put you out of your misery years ago. Beating the shit out of you didn't help, _fucking_ you was a waste of time, and I knew it would never work despite how much he wanted it to. When we had to force you to do _everything_ I knew – _knew –_ it was a disaster _,_ but he wouldn't let me just keep you as _mine_ and find some other girl for the propaganda. And you repay him for this mercy by _killing_ him?! You stupid, _ungrateful –_ Can you blame me for what I did? You screwed over our chances in Russia, you fought us tooth and nail against _everything,_ and in the end you were just one giant fucking _tease!_ And then to still be a fucking Jew sympathizer –"

I'm stuck in place as the chair gives a concerning groan and several MPs rush forward to help restrain him. My lawyer pulls me back as they begin dragging him towards the exit, still screaming.

"I hope they cut your _fucking_ head off in Nuremberg, Caroline. I hope that Jew-bitch Anne and her little boyfriend haunt your dreams until they do. You're the reason they are dead! I hope you _never_ forget that. You are _mine._ I want you to look at your arm every day and remember that you a fucking _mine,_ no matter what that _kike_ outside does! Goddamn _cunt_ – I hope you burn in _Hell!"_

By this point they have him halfway to the door and are pulling him past my table. When he's even with me I pull away from my lawyer, shoving myself at him until the MP holding his free wrist pushes me back.

"Have a good life in the gulag, Henrich," I taunt him from behind the guards arm. "If I'm going to Hell, I guess I'll see you there. _Fuck. You."_

With a scream of rage he heaves his body towards me, his eyes bulging from his sockets and his face a deep shade of red. The MPs around him shout at him as they muscle him forward. Smith grabs me and yanks me away from him, and we watch as he is carried to the door. Henrich let out one final bellow as he is pulled through and the door cuts him off as is swings shut after him with a sharp bang.

Everyone in the courtroom stares at it, the silence sudden and deafening.

"I'll talk," I tell my lawyer behind me, my voice sounding impossibly loud. "His _lies…"_ My eyes hurt as I continue to stare at the door, swollen with unshed tears. I take a deep breath.

"I want to testify."

* * *

 **Hi everyone! I'm still alive!**

 **This has been the craziest spring ever! We decide we are done being suburban home owners and moved into a cool apartment in the city... just in time for my work to give me a new position that is going to require us to move halfway across the country. So even though we just unpacked, we are going to have to repack and move again here in about seven weeks. It's a great and exciting opportunity with my job, but what a hassle! And, in the middle of all this, an international student who had been staying with us this past school year finished her studies and we had to say goodbye as she returned to her home country after living with us for ten months. We miss her so much! :(**

 **So, I am sorry this took so long. I really appreciate the reviews you guys left and I'm sorry you had to ask for an update. I hope you enjoy this one!**

 **Emmy and Guest - thank you so much for the feedback!**

 **I do plan on responding to the reviews left by those who can receive PMs tomorrow, so please don't feel left out! I love reading them so much and thank you all for following my story.**


	51. Chapter 49

**Hello!**

 **So, you've probably been wondering why the hell I haven't updated in three months.**

 **I've moved to my new city, one that is HUGE compared to my old one. And first we moved to a temporary rental at my old city, then to a temporary rental in my new city, and finally into a permanent place last week. So I've moved THREE freaking times and I never want to see a cardboard box again.**

 **And the new job sucks all the hours out of the day. You know, when I started WFR I was just a cubicle drone who opened an Office document to make it seem like I was working instead of browsing the internet bored out of my mind. Little did I know that two-ish years later I would be working my ass off on the other side of the country and trying to squeeze in writing on the weekends. I kind of miss being a drone :)**

 **For the guest reviews and truckaduck and michele - I'm sorry for the wait! I promise I am going to finish the story!**

* * *

Jesus Christ, his shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch.

Nixon stood on his right side, berating him loudly to the nosy interest of the random people loitering on this floor of the courthouse.

Some sergeant with the MPs stood on his left, putting in his angry word or two whenever Nixon paused to take a breath.

Nicotine was making his palms sweat in some form, either in an overdose from the pack he ran through this morning or in withdrawal from the reality that the smokes weren't calming him down one fucking bit.

And the pain pills weren't doing shit either except making him feel woozy and like his tongue was covered in ash.

What a goddamn mess.

He forced himself to relax, to loosen a least a few of his muscles so he could take a good breath and not fucking pass out.

"I don't know what the hell you were thinking – was it that I could get you out of a _fistfight,_ for christsake, with the _military police,_ of all people? In a _courtroom,_ no less?!"

"You are going to have to come up with a good reason, Corporal, to convince me not to take you into custody and start insubordination proceedings –"

"You are _not_ the first bastard to fall in love, Joe, and it doesn't give you the right –"

The courtroom doors loomed in the space between where they stood, shut tightly and much too far away from the bench Nixon forced him to sit on. The toe of one of his shoes squeaked noisily as his heel bounced up and down. His fingertips danced a rhythm where they rested on his knee.

"What the _hell_ did you think was going to happen, hmm? That the lawyer would finally be convinced that he should do you a favor despite how _extraordinarily_ uncooperative you are? That he would let you stay, risking tainting your entire testimony, one of only _two_ he has? I can't believe –"

Then it came, muffled by the thick wood of the doors he had been staring at and the flapping of Nixon's jaws and the murmurings of the people scattered around them. But he still heard it. His ears had been pricked for it, waiting.

 _"I knew I should have carved you into pieces when I had the chance!"_

He was up and on his feet, striding past Nixon before the officer had the chance to even register that he moved.

 _"Beating the shit out of you didn't help,_ fucking _you was a waste of time –"_

The words grew clearer the closer he got to the entrance, an alarming haze narrowing his vision more tightly with every step. His hand clenched at his shoulder for a rifle that fucking inopportunely wasn't there. The MP at the door stepped forward, blocking his path – his way to _her._

 _"You are mine. I want you to look at your arm every day and remember that you a fucking_ mine _, no matter what that kike outside does! Goddamn cunt –"_

"Get out of my way."

A rough yank on his coat had him taking an ungainly stumble back from the unmoved MP. "Have you heard a goddamn word that I've said?!" Nixon nearly shouted in his ear. He was pulled another few feet. "Sit back down!"

Despite himself he couldn't stop from trying to wrench away, even if the voice in the back of his head was yelling in competition with Nixon that he was only making everything worse. The sergeant stepped in front of him, adding another fucking layer between him and Caroline. "Son, calm down."

" _I hope they cut your fucking head off in Nuremberg –"_

Nixon cursed loudly as Joe surged forward once more, strongly enough that the sergeant stiff-armed him with a hand against the uninjured side of his chest. He could hear people whispering and murmuring around him as they watched but he couldn't give less of a shit. "Let me through, _goddammit!"_

"No," the sergeant replied simply.

He was going to fucking start breaking bones if they didn't fucking let him go. Ripping his sight from the door to look down at the sergeant's hand bunching his jacket and Nixon's unrelenting grip on his bicep, he felt his hand curl into a fist. Nixon felt the muscles tightening as well. "You need to back off, Joe, before I let them arrest you," he hissed hotly in Joe's ear.

When Joe raised his head again he saw another MP had joined the first one, making _four_ fucking people to fight through before he could see her. His bullet hole burned a straight path through his guts to the exit wound on his shoulder blade. Sweat pooled in his clamped fingers. His face felt flushed and hot. The men stared back at him, unmoving, and as he looked at them lined up against him he felt his rage shift slightly, nudged aside by something entirely worse: hopeless futility.

He ripped himself backwards, out of their reach, and physically turned away from that infuriating door and searing burn of emotions it triggered. She was feet from him but the distance might as well have been the measured in miles. It was killing him, more painfully than the German bullet nearly had. As the agonizing helplessness coursed through him fucking _again_ he tore his hat from his head and threw it so forcefully onto the bench that it bounced off the hard wood and onto the floor, sliding back to him until it hit the edge of his boot. _Another_ fucking pointless waste of goddamn energy. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his powerlessness to do anything but fucking _listen_ to the hell she was going through at this very fucking moment and it made him want to tear his hair out.

He stooped to resentfully scoop the hat back up when all of a sudden there was a shattering slam behind him. He had just registered the sound and was straightening when what followed reached him a split second later - a torrent screaming and shouting.

Whirling around and holding his hat so tightly his Airborne pin nearly broke the skin of his palm, he saw the door shaking hard as it hit the wall again, pushed by a clot of MPs clearly struggling at the threshold. As they shifted and strained a blonde head in the middle of them flashed in and out of his view.

 _"This isn't done!"_ Henrich was screaming in German, straining over the men holding him to look back into the room. _"You'll be mine again – just fucking wait, you-you motherfucking_ Mischling _!"_

That was new Nazi slang he recognized, finally after all these months he spent fighting them. He heard that term before the war, when the murmurings of trouble were mentioned in the newspapers and the boys at school called him the names they read about but didn't understand _._ He figured the meaning out when he caught his father in a rare sober moment and gathered the courage to ask. Joe remembered the long look he got as the old man set down his newspaper, his first beer of the day on the table between them and the thick, spicy smoke from the imported cigarettes he bought blowing out of his nostrils.

 _"Where the hell did you hear that?"_ he had questioned.

Joe shrugged. _"Around."_

That earned him a grunt, and his father crushed the cigarette into the ashtray with a vigor that made Joe's still-scrawny ass nervous about what was to come next. But, surprisingly, instead he got a straight answer.

 _"It's one of the reasons we left the old country,"_ his father told him, pausing to take a deep swig the beer. _"It means someone is tainted. A mongrel."_

 _"Tainted by what?"_ he responded, like a naïve idiot.

With a huff, his father's eyes flashed with irritation and he knew their rare moment of civility had passed as quickly as it dawned. _"What do you think? Put goddamn two-and-two together. It's about being Jewish. What else?"_

 _Mischling. Judenscheisse. Kike._ _Judenschwein._ All the fucking names these assholes had come up with for his people – people that they were slaughtered by the millions – and were now being directed at the one person he gave a damn about.

His feet shot forward. Nixon and the MPs didn't have a chance to stop him if they even noticed over the uproar. By some miracle a gap appeared between two soldiers holding onto Henrich as he fought them with a renewed rush to make it back into the courtroom. Joe shimmied through it until he found himself in the writhing center containing that son of a bitch. Henrich didn't notice, still screaming back at her.

The soldiers were merely trying to hold onto Henrich and move him, not to stop him. Their job was to control, not to fight. So it came as a complete surprise to Henrich when Joe's fist whipped out, connecting with Henrich's jaw in a sharp uppercut. His angry tirade was cut off suddenly as his head snapped back violently and his body was thrown into the direction the MPs behind him had been pulling, leading to both Henrich and the men tumbling to the floor.

He followed the blonde man down, until he was kneeling next to the spot where Henrich hit the ground with a pained grunt and could meet the confused, surprised gaze of the man with a cold glare. For a few glorious seconds they stared at each other, Henrich belatedly realizing who had hit him and Joe reveling in an emotion that was finally the exact opposite of helplessness. A plan clicked into place just as Henrich tried to move and roll away.

Joe knew he had about ten seconds at most before everyone got over their shock and dragged them apart. So he threw his knee down until it landed across Henrich's throat, pinning him defenselessly to the floor just as his free hand caught Henrich's fist to trap it from swinging back. He bent down, until he was inches from Henrich's bulging blue eyes and no one else – bilingual or not – could hear his words. "You remember the last time we were like this? I warned you. I told you to leave her alone. You just made a huge mistake."

Henrich couldn't respond with the pressure Joe's knee was putting on his neck, but that was irrelevant because less than an instant later Joe was being pulled off him. He went willingly – which was unexpected if Nixon's bewildered face as he was led away meant anything – and in his wake the group of MPs descended on Henrich once more. As they stood him up and hauled him away again Joe heard some coughing followed by vague proclamations that Joe couldn't do shit, but he didn't acknowledge the Nazi again and left him screaming at nothing until he disappeared down the stairs.

In the wake of his departure everyone left in the hallway and courtroom stared at each other in disbelief for one long, disturbingly quiet moment. Joe let himself be directed by Nixon a few more steps from where Henrich had lain, wiping the sweat from him forehead.

"This is a complete goddamn disaster," the sergeant finally announced vehemently, making more than one person jolt in surprise. He pointed at a private at the door. "Go in there and tell them that proceedings are finished for the day so we can re-establish security and get that German son of a bitch out of this facility. Keep the defendant up here until he's gone. I don't want them crossing paths in holding."

"Yes Sergeant," the private replied.

The sergeant swung his finger until it was pointed at Joe. " _You_ are out of here. You aren't going to set another foot in this building unless you have a goddamn subpoena in your hand. Understood?"

The pain in his shoulder roared back through him as Nixon held him in place, made all the worse from his tangle to get to Henrich, and he couldn't form an answer immediately. Breathing hard, he watched the people clearing out of the courtroom behind the sergeant as the private relayed the orders and, finally, he saw her figure emerge from the back of the crowd.

Her face was stoic – stony, even – and she stood motionless at the top of the aisle looking back at him. Despite her guarded expression and the long space between them he could see that whatever happened during Henrich's testimony had done something painful to her. She didn't cry as she beheld him, but thoughts distressingly dark lurked in her eyes and she stood uncomfortably rigid between her lawyer and interpreter.

There was no way they would let him in the courtroom now. So he cocked his head at her, wordlessly asking her _that_ question for the third time this morning. He knew she understood when she quickly blinked and shook herself, visibly coming out of whatever haunted place held her. Taking a quick glance at the people gathered around her, she met his stare again to give him a soft nod.

An MP stepped in front of her to re-secure her in wrist shackles, blocking her from view once more, and he reverted his attention back to the sergeant standing in front of him. "Fine."

Breaking out of Nixon's loosened grip, he made for the same stairs Henrich had been lugged down. Nixon fell into step beside him immediately. "Don't bullshit me, Liebgott. I know you, and I know it isn't ' _fine,'"_ he said sharply, avoiding the people they were passing. "What the hell are you going to do _now_?"

"Nothing, sir," Joe replied emphatically, busting through the doors and into the bright sunlight outside. "I just need to make a phone call, that's all."

* * *

She accepted his request to visit that evening.

Now he was crammed in this fucking microscopic room, at a table pressed up against the wall with only a few feet of clearance around it. An MP stood over his shoulder at the door, nearly breathing down his fucking neck. He had been told the rules when he was sat in here: no touching, nothing passed between them, and if he or Caroline started acting shady the visit would be terminated and a third-party translator would be required on future visits.

Fucking whatever. They were left alone together for hours yesterday but heaven forbid they look at each other the wrong way in here. Typical idiot army logic.

When the door finally opened he stood, both because it was polite and because if he didn't the goddamn doorknob would swing right into his temple. The MP in there with him pressed back, making space for her to squeeze by. She did so, her mouth pinching with displeasure as her back bumped against his chest. Joe batted the door away and it swung back closed, giving her room to shuffle around to the table. She sat, her gaze falling on him and her expression easing at that even as the MP hung over her to take off the wrist shackles.

He returned to his seat as well and leaned on the table towards them. "Sorry this fucking dumb dipshit draftee here is a pain in the ass," he told her loudly in German, watching the MP.

The man's countenance didn't as much as flicker and he stepped back to hang the shackles on the wall. Caroline settled, slowly raising an eyebrow at him. He shrugged back. "Had to make sure we have at least a little privacy."

She rubbed her wrists. "Don't tell me you are about to share your elaborate plan to break me out of this place. That's a little reckless, even for you."

Ignoring the guard, he relaxed back in his chair to consider her for moment. Sarcasm from her was rare and he wanted to enjoy it, but it felt off – forced, even. And she was looking drained, more so than usual. "I heard enough of what he said through the door," he ended up telling her seriously. "Figured you had some things to say about it that was nobody else's business."

If anything the lines on her face deepened and her fingers dug into her forehead, no doubt trying to relax the vein of tension he felt just sitting next to her. "I'm testifying."

He jolted in his chair, sitting up. "What?"

Her face was tense. "I know you wanted me to do so and I was thinking about it, but today... I can't let what he said about me... some of it..." Bringing her hands up to her face in a praying gesture, she stared at the floor at her feet with her elbows on her knees, emotions rolling just beneath the surface of her skin. "I can't let them think his _lies_ are the truth."

Frowning, he watched her try visibly compose herself. "You know it was a bunch of bullshit, right?" he answered. "He's clearly mad." When she only sighed in return he reached for her, trying to offer some sort of comfort the only way he knew how.

"No contact," the MP droned behind him and he dropped his hand with a curse.

"This is so fucking stupid," he resumed in German. "They won't let me touch you even though if I had the mind to I would have just taken you out of the goddamn hospital yesterday."

"I know. They gave me a list of rules too." She blew out a breath, pushing her hair out of her face and straightening. "But it's alright. I'm fine."

Still, however, she wasn't meeting his eyes. "Are you, really?"

Under her lashes, her eyes fitted to the MP sharply watching them both before returning to stare tiredly at her knees. "I have to be," she eventually replied, her voice faint. "This whole day has already been humiliating enough."

That answer had him dragging a hand down his own face in frustration. "Hey, guy," he focused on the MP once more. "I will give you a pack of smokes and ten bucks to step outside for five minutes."

"No."

"Look, she's had a fucking shitty day and we just need a few seconds without being babysat –"

 _"No."_

"Goddammit – _twenty_ bucks."

The MP looked unimpressed.

"Thirty." Joe reached into his jacket. "And two packs." He threw the cartons on the table and the soldier's gaze slid over to them. "Five minutes, that's all I'm asking," Joe urged.

The MP eyeballed him. "Fifty, plus those. And the door stays open."

Joe gave him a flat look. "Fifty fucking dollars? Are you kidding me?"

The MP didn't reply and pointedly settled back against the wall behind her. She shifted in her chair uncomfortably, still staring blankly at her lap, and that had Joe digging into his pocket. "Goddamn fucking thieves," he grumbled as he pulled out the cash to jab in the MP's direction. "Make sure you buy something pretty for yourself, alright? Something to show all your other Mop Pusher friends."

"Cute." The man looked at Joe's sling but he visibly caught himself before making a smartass remark about it. In between trying to not scream in pain and staying conscious on the courtroom floor, Joe fuzzily remembered Nixon yelling something at them about Purple Heart wounds and showing goddamn consideration and such. Serves them fucking right.

Snatching the dollars that Joe had exchanged the British notes for that very morning, the MP yanked open the door and it banged against Joe's chair. "Five minutes," he sneered, reaching between him and Caroline to grab the cigarettes as well. "I'm sure that's all _you_ need, but keep your fucking clothes on."

Unimpressed, Joe watched him stomp out, leaving the door open a couple of feet in his wake. When he turned back to face Caroline again she was peering towards the hallway, looking worried. "Do you have to leave?"

He grabbed her hand. "I bought us a few minutes alone, fucking literally. Come here."

Standing, he drew her up with him and, flummoxed, she got to her feet. "What are we –"

She didn't finish her sentence as he stepped around the table, entering the already narrow space between them in the tiny room. "Tell me you don't believe a word he said."

Her blue eyes left his again, looking past him to the doorway the MP vacated, and his heart sunk to his stomach at the hollowness he saw there. "Not after all this. Not after what you've been through. You can't after all they've done to you."

Her chin moved, her lips twitching, and her brows drew together in a motion he recognized as pain, the same pain she had locked away earlier in the courtroom. "Most of it yes, I know. But Henrich was there…he knows what I… It's difficult…" She stopped and shuddered harshly, as though the air around her suddenly froze, and squeezed her eyes shut tightly. He waited, watching every emotion and every memory playing out with every shiver convulsing her in his grasp and wishing he could wipe them away as simply as the rest of her enemies were wiped from the face of the earth.

When her eyes finally opened again he hated what he saw. She was losing the war within herself, the battles waged to show nothing and to hide the bloody vestiges of a past that was nevertheless acted out in those proceedings to everyone's scornful delight. The pain became bald on her face, overtaking her even as she tried to stop it. "Joe –" She stopped again, the next words halted with a harsh choke coming from her throat. His name rang plaintively, a plea for some sort of comfort from the lingering malice Henrich cast cracking through her voice before she even formed the syllable. And with it he watched the fragile shell that she built around herself yesterday and he tried to reinforce this morning shatter completely in the brief, safe solitude this room afforded.

Her hand was already reaching for him, grasping at his jacket as though it could save her from collapsing straight to the floor. But he was already there, answering, pulling her into his chest with a gentle tug on her waist.

He didn't say anything else. There was nothing he could say. He told her what he could, both last night and now, but it was up to her to finally realize it as the truth. Such a thing was much easier said than done, he knew, so he didn't repeat himself as he held her. Instead, as she buried her face in his body, he held her like he had on that cold night, when the smoking gun rested heavily at his side and the silhouette of Schueller's body dissolved into the darkness. Why did they have to be like this again? Why couldn't it have been easier – all of it?

Tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck, he pressed his lips into the top of her head and held them there. His anger at the situation, his frustration at this fucking limbo pulling them so tight that they both were perilously close to snapping, made him want to grab her and run. He didn't know where the hell to, just away from this fucking place and from anyone trying to kill her goddamn again.

Yet, he couldn't, and that was the most excruciating fact of them all. He couldn't do anything to save her, not this time. He was testifying, but there was no one else to fight, no other woods to flee through, no more cellars to hide in, and he didn't know what to do. So he held her there, in that room ominously the size of a coffin, with that fucking MP laughing with someone down the hall, and with only one arm to offer her comfort.

But she accepted it, without hesitation. She was there, by him – _with_ him – and for at least those five minutes it was all that mattered.

* * *

The hatred seethed in him, a writhing snake unsettled and unsatisfied.

On the crumbling roads of the countryside, miles away from the city, the late afternoon sun was bleeding into evening but the air still shimmered with the unrelenting heat of the day and the suffocating humidity of the low country. The tree's drooped, as if the leaves grew heavy on their branches, and hung ponderously over the car navigating across the bombed concrete.

 _Fucking bitch._

He wondered how much longer they were going to be subject to this sweltering ride before they reached the mountains and gained altitude up to the American airfield in Salzburg. However long that was, every passing second had him stewing deeper and deeper into the snake's underbelly.

 _Thinks she can kill Dr. Mueller and get away with it? She'll fucking find out the consequences._

The disgusting Communist sat at his side, his shoulder bumping into Henrich's with every pitch of the car. He sneered at it, but the Russian didn't look away from the window. Stupid Slavic dog.

 _Just wait until I have her again. I'll scalp that pretty blond hair right off her head. I'll make those big blue eyes weep in pain._

How long would the Soviets bother with him? He may have been in the pictures with the _Einsatzgruppen_ squad in Demidov but they didn't have proof he killed anyone. It wasn't like he was in that filthy country on his own volition anyway. Surely somewhere was a copy of the orders Himmler and Dr. Mueller issued to send him on that "tour." None of what happened out in that cold, miserable frontier was his fault because if he had his choice, there was only one person he wanted to fucking _destroy_ and she was currently back in fucking Munich _._ The Russian Jews were just a momentary distraction they placed in front of him like he was a toddler to be preoccupied by a new toy. But it was fucking boring – pogroms were so fucking _tedious_ – and the other _SS_ men were dumb as rocks. He knew his time there was all a fucking ruse to distract their fans from her disappearance.

 _I'm going to rip her fingernails out, one by one. Followed by her fucking teeth._

It was supposed to give her time alone. To create some space between them so that she could come to her senses. _"We might be pushing too hard,"_ Dr. Mueller said. _"Her resistance is only escalating,"_ Dr. Mueller said. _"Give her to me. Let me have her,"_ he replied. _"We'll find someone else."_

But Dr. Mueller didn't, and here they all were now. Him, stuck with these fucking Red Army assholes, Dr. Mueller dead, everything in shambles. Nothing had changed when he returned from the front and she still remained stubborn as a mule out in that fucking shack, starving and filthy. Dr. Mueller had such a great vision when all this started and such a brilliant plan to rid the _Mutterland_ of partisans like her and her family but by the time Henrich made it back to Berlin the stink of failure was thick wherever he looked. She stayed out there, defying them and _fucking hiding an American Jew,_ Goebbels was slashing their funding to the bone, and Dr. Mueller seemed completely aimless in what to do. In the end he couldn't muster up the energy to try to salvage the situation until it was too fucking late.

It was all her fault. She sabotaged _everything –_ and she _murdered_ the one man who kept her alive _._ Without Dr. Mueller Caroline would have been shot with the rest of them all those years ago. And how did she repay him?

 _She'll beg for mercy, just like before. Only this time Dr. Mueller won't be there to stop me._

If she had just behaved, had just done what she was told, Dr. Mueller's dreams would have come true and he and Henrich would be fucking kings in the Party and the world would be rid of those god-awful fucking _Jews!_

 _I'll carve my name into her skin, right across her fucking forehead this time._

How long would the Soviets hold him on these trumped up charges? A few months, a year? They had _nothing._ He was smarter than the rest of them and covered his tracks. It was a matter of time before they let him go and then nothing was going to stop him from finding her and that Jewish bastard boyfriend of hers.

 _I'll make him watch._

That son of a bitch may have gotten a few good licks in, but Henrich wasn't afraid of him. Oh no, once he was healed he would show both of them how wrong they were for crossing him and how stupid those fucking empty threats that _kike_ kept making. Liebgott was merely _lucky_ Henrich was injured both times they encountered each other.

 _That's one Jew I'm going to kill slowly. I'll bleed him out like a stuck pig._

He cursed her in that courtroom because he was enjoying the look on her face, but he hoped she would be released after this trial. He wanted her to die by his own hands rather than some American executioner. He wanted her happy, wanted her complacent and safe. He wanted enough time to pass so that when he rang her doorbell she wouldn't suspect what was waiting for her on the other side. Maybe if he was lucky there would be a Jew-blood spawn or two running around as well.

 _I want her cries to ring in my ears. I'll break her piece by piece._

Yes, he needed enough time to pass to make sure his return wasn't expected. This ridiculous Soviet matter would take up most of it, and gave him ample opportunity to plan what he was going to do down to the exact depth he was going to cut her when he sliced her clothes off. While he was locked up he was going to do nothing but think about her, plot about her, and dream about her.

She had no idea what was coming.

They hit a deep pothole and the Russian smacked against him again. If it wouldn't add time to his ordeal with them he would use the handcuff chain to strangle the life out of this idiot. He had seen enough hangings to know how that would look, and picturing it pleased him. First the eyes would bulge out in panic, the face going red, and the hands fruitlessly clawing at the chain. The worthless gasping sounds, the pointless kicking of feet, the vessels breaking and bleeding to stain the eyes pink–

Without warning the driver slammed on the brakes, throwing Henrich and the soldier forward into the driver's seat. A loud curse sounded beside him and the grunting gibberish of Russian came from driver in response as the car shuddered to a stop.

"What the fuck was that for, you stupid mongrels?" he snapped in irritated German as he sat back up, knowing these Bolshevik morons didn't understand him. They ignored him, talked to each other and looking through the windshield. He ducked his head, following their gaze to see out.

An American jeep was parked in the road, blocking their way. A group of four soldiers stood in front of it, waiting expectantly. They were American as well.

The Russian in the back seat turned towards him. "Don't move," he said English and sharply poked his finger into Henrich's injured arm, "or you will regret it."

Henrich only smirked in response, but the Soviet said nothing else before climbing out of the car. He and the driver watched through the windshield as the man carefully approached the Americans who still hadn't moved from the jeep. The driver had stopped a fair distance back and Henrich couldn't make out their faces, not that he knew many Americans. More aggravating was that he couldn't hear either when he saw the Russian speak.

He should take out the driver. Everyone was distracted and this might be the only time it would be one-on-one. He could snap the driver's neck and drive off in the car before anyone realized what was happening. His eyes dropped to the back of the driver's head in front of him. The man wasn't paying attention. He had enough give in these chains to make a move. They would never find him, not if he headed west and stayed on the American side. He could disappear into the mountains, just like he planned to do before that _fucker_ shot him, and wait until the heat died down. Enough time to make his plan _perfect._

Ahead of him one of the Americans was talking back to the Russian and reaching towards the floorboard of the jeep. He came back up with some sort of large box, which he held out for the Russian to look inside. Whatever, he didn't give a fuck about what the hell was going on there. But the driver was still transfixed by it and it was now or never.

He punched his hands forward, over the top of the driver's head. His intention was to come down in front of the driver's face to position his hands for the lift and sharp twist the _SS_ had taught him.

That training, however, didn't account for a _fucking_ arm cast.

The hard plaster caught the ceiling with a loud _crack_ , making the driver instinctively duck away and Henrich's hold missed completely.

 _Son of a bitch._

The driver twisted around, seeing where Henrich's arms had been positioned and what he clearly had been trying to do, and started shouting in angry Russian. Snatching his arms back, Henrich ducked his head again to check on the other soldier. "Shut the fuck up," he growled.

To his dismay, the others had heard the yelling. The soldier was already making his way back to the car, still holding the box and striding furiously across the distance. The Americans were trailing behind him. _Shit._ Henrich barely had time to react before the door was ripped open and he was grabbed and jerked out by his collar. Grabbing onto the door frame, his strength only lasted a moment before his fingertips slipped and he landed hard on his back in the dirt, coughing.

"Stupid Fascist swine, what did I tell you?" The box was dropped beside him and as he was hauled up again he realized it was filled with American cigarettes, liquor, and magazines. The Russian shoved him back and he felt someone else roughly catch him, likely one of the Americans.

The driver was still shouting through the open door and the soldier turned to say something back at him in quick Russian. Whatever it was, it shut the driver up and made him stare at Henrich, a delighted look crossing his face.

"I don't give a shit what you do with him," the Russian told the men gathered behind Henrich in heavily accented English. "Just don't kill him. My orders are to bring him back alive, only."

"Deal," whoever was holding him answered. "You got the keys to his restraints?"

What the _fuck_ was this? As the Russian tossed a set of keys at someone Henrich tried to wrestle out of the American's grip but it only grew painfully tight. What the _hell?_

Then one of the Americans was undoing the cuffs at his wrists and feet. Henrich had never seen him before. _Perconte_ was the name on his uniform. Who the fuck was this guy? As his arms were freed he automatically brought them up to shove the fucker away but they were instantly grabbed and wrenched back to his sides. Perconte tossed the chains back to the Russian.

 _What in the hell did they want?_ Why unchain him?

Abruptly they swung him around and began forcefully marching him through the tree line at the side of the road, into the dark and muggy woods. He tried to lock his legs, digging his heels in the wet dirt, until one of them cinched his uninjured arm up his back in alarmingly familiar move that made it feel like his shoulder was going to dislocate once more. Immobilized, he was pushed forward relentlessly, heedless of the branches smacking him across the face.

When the trees thinned into a small meadow the man holding him flung him headlong to the ground and he fell heavily on all fours. As soon as he felt the soft grass under his hands he went to scramble away, but they had already surrounded him and he was blocked by a pair of knees threatening to break his nose. Rolling into a sitting position, he looked up at the four figures hovering over him.

"Who are you? What the fuck is this?" he hollered at them, looking at their uniforms. _Perconte. Heffron. Sisk. Janovec._ He didn't know _any_ of these assholes.

The one named Sisk crouched until he was eye-level with Henrich. "I didn't expect to see to have to see you again, Lehmann." The man pushed his helmet back, bringing his face out of its shadow, and suddenly he looked vaguely, disturbingly familiar. Had this man been at the court house? The POW camp?

"Have we met?" he spit out, glaring. "Or do you throw all your acquaintances around like this?"

"You aren't so good at keeping promises." Sisk was acting like he didn't hear him. Something wasn't fucking right. They _knew_ him somehow. He didn't have much contact with the Americans during the war, outside of...

Henrich glanced at the others again and they stared coolly back down at him. But when his gaze landed to study Janovec he got that same, unnerving feeling. "Listen you fucking Yankee, I'm not afraid of you. I don't know what the fuck you are doing –"

"Specifically ones regarding Caroline Alsbach." Sisk continued.

Henrich stopped. He looked at Sisk and Janovec again. Suddenly he was prodded painfully from behind, tossing him forward, and the circle around him tightened forebodingly. He caught himself, sweat dripping down his temples and stinging his eyes, and in the anticipatory silence left as they crowded around him an ugly and startling click of realization came. And with that knowledge he felt himself go cold.

Sisk stood again. "Liebgott was willing to give you a pass for being in the same room with her to testify, because it's fair to say you didn't have a choice in that. And if you had just done the right thing there we wouldn't be here now. But you didn't, did you? What was it you said? Threaten to kill her? Threaten to come after her when you were free? I'll say, it was pretty dumb of you to explain how you weren't going to keep your word with him right there to hear it. And I believe Liebgott outlined the consequences for you pretty clearly back at that old lady's house. Do you remember what they were?"

He couldn't answer. He couldn't breathe. He sat, stupefied, staring at them. Remembering them on the porch, watching what was happening to him. The one right in front of him now was the same one that helped trap him in that bedroom, and the one that was going to shoot Greta. Jesus- _fucking-_ Christ –

"Apparently he doesn't. Janovec, can you help him?"

"We rip his fingers off," the soldier next to him replied instantly, not looking away from Henrich. "One by one."

His lungs spasmed for air but he before could bring himself to draw a breath Sisk was pulling off his helmet, tossing it to the side. "That's what Liebgott said, but you know what? Once we get going it might be hard to stop, especially with a piece of shit _SS_ officer like you. I wonder what else you can afford to lose, especially since you have a _thing_ for attacking women."

Janovec was doing the same, shedding parts of his uniform that might get in the way and rolling up his sleeves. "Listen," Henrich sputtered desperately, hitting the legs of the soldiers behind him as he inched away from the two, "this is all a big fucking mistake. I didn't do _shit_ to Caroline. Liebgott has had it out for me since he met her because he's a –"

There was a rough yank on the back of his shirt and without warning he was lying flat, watching the four faces close in on him. A boot stomped down on his wrist and crushed it into the ground, wrenching a cry of pain from his mouth. "The war is over!" he cried out, the words rushing out in a frantic pitch as Sisk pulled out his trench knife. "You can't do this! I'm a POW and have to be treated – _shit!"_

Back at the road, the two Russians were sharing a light for their newly-acquired Luckies when the screams reached them.

They looked to the forest, but the Nazi and the Americans were hidden deep in the trees. "What did he do to them?" the driver asked.

"Didn't say," the soldier replied. "Just that they had some business with him. Asked if I would get into trouble if he came back worse for wear. Some sort of bad blood between them, I'd guess."

"Who doesn't have a fucking grudge with the Nazis?" the driver muttered, sorting through the box until he found a magazine with a buxom woman illustrated on the front. "This is some pretty good shit they gave you. Must've wanted him real bad."

The soldier didn't reply, sucking on the Lucky. The Americans always had far better cigarettes. The liquor, too, looked like scotch and he pulled out his canteen to empty the stale contents into the dirt. He was sick of cheap vodka.

The screams continued.

* * *

"You're not as upset as I'd thought you'd be," she told him softly.

They were back at the table, the MP watching them as he lounged in the doorway. Her eyes were red but dry as her hands idly toyed with the edge of her skirt in her lap. She didn't look up at him, but now it was more from exhaustion than anything else. Since rising from his embrace she was slightly more relaxed – enough to make him hopeful that Henrich hadn't put them back at square one – and as they sat there in contemplative quiet his persistent fear that she would retreat from him again slowly withdrew once more to the back of his mind.

His leaned on the table, his jaw resting on the pad of his thumb and his fingers at his lips in the ingrained habit of a smoker. Indeed he would kill for one right now, but he'd earmarked the pack left in his coat and the cartons he stashed in his bag for Sisk and he'd already spent too much money today to buy more, at least until he could see whatever S-8 served this place and make a withdrawal.

"I was afraid that you would… you know, lose your temper again and get into trouble," she continued. Then, looking up at him, she added quickly, "I'm glad you didn't."

He drew his fingers from his mouth and fisted them under his chin, take a deep breath of air. "Not entirely, darlin'."

Her brow furrowed. "What happened?" I heard the commotion in the hall but there were too many people to make it out."

Pulling his hand away, he looked at the faint bruise already healing across his knuckles. "He said a lot of stupid shit to you – "

Her eyes fell on it too. "You hit him –"

"- and doesn't keep his word either. I should have known he wouldn't, not when he just wanted me to stop what I was doing to him." He stared at his hand. "…Too bad for him."

He recalled the warm sunlight in Greta's yard shining on the back of his head as he stood over the prostrate man, the unfathomable rage burning up his insides until he was even afraid of what he would do. The memory were so vivid for a moment he could nearly hear Henrich's labored breaths once more and could feel the Nazi's arms trembling in his grip. And then the ripping _pop_ –

"Joe." The sound of Caroline's voice had him blinking, taking in the narrow confines of the room and the bored MP once more. She observed him steadily, a slightly concerned look on her face that grew more apparent when he met her gaze and felt the hard expression he realized he was wearing.

"He promised he would leave you alone, but he didn't," he told her, unable to stop the rough edge creeping into his tone. "He doesn't get a second chance. He won't be bothering you again."

She frowned. "What are you going to do?"

Shaking his head, he breathed hard through his nose. "It's already done."

Surprise lit her face and she paled. "…Is…is he dead?"

"No, but he probably wishes he was."

Staring at her, he saw the thoughts crossing across her mind and knew what she was picturing. Him, ready to kill her in the yard. Him, stalking Greta with the axe. Him, slaughtering the Germans in her parlor. _Him,_ being everything he promised he wouldn't be any longer.

Before she could speak and ask the questions about what happened to Henrich that he didn't want to answer he shook his head at her again. "He doesn't deserve any forgiveness or mercy, Caroline. I can't be a good person when it comes to him. I just…can't."

Her color didn't return. The seconds ticked past, and his fingertips digging deeper into his palms with each one as he watched her digest this information. The MP adjusted his position in the door loudly, oblivious to their locked eyes. He didn't move a muscle as her gaze studied his face, which he knew confirmed the truth of his words. He _wasn't_ the person he used to be, but that didn't mean his past was erased forever. One man kept it alive, a man who now suffered in a way she would never know because he never wanted her to be frightened of him again. And the instructions he gave to Sisk would be downright disturbing to anyone who hadn't spent the last year knee deep in blood and bodies. Indeed, Sisk had only replied with a short _"W_ _here do we find him?"_ , but Caroline was entirely different and her fear was the single thing he wanted most to avoid. He _prayed_ to avoid. He couldn't take her shying away from him in again. So he watched her, waiting for her response.

The blueness of her irises mirrored the gray lighting of the room when she finally spoke.

"Okay, Joe."

He sagged in his chair, nodding to himself in relief that fate was finally going to have its way with that blonde tyrant and she was going to be spared the brutal details.

They didn't say much for the rest of the visit, content in their own tired thoughts and consumed with the few centimeters they dared between their fingertips on the tabletop.

Henrich Lehmann wasn't spoken of again.


End file.
